


The One Where Saul Gets Pregnant

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Pineapple Express (2008)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin. Dale unwittingly impregnates Saul. Unwittingly because he's a guy. They subsequently learn to live with each other and the impending problems.<br/>The idea is crack, the approach and length is entirely too serious.<br/>This was written as a NaNoWriMo project.... in November 2008. I have drafts of the last chapters of this monster, but like a lot of fics, the ending is the hardest part to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Morning light hits Dale in the face and seems to penetrate his very brain when he dares crack his eyes open. He tries to turn his body away, bury his head under the pillow, maybe, or cocoon himself tighter in the blanket, but he quickly becomes aware of a heavy body nestled against his.

That's right-- he hasn't even lived in this apartment long enough to wake up knowing that he's at Saul's.

They had all been injured pretty badly in the big standoff at Ted's hideout, but decided not to go visit the hospital all at once, linking their stories and incriminating themselves. They walked Red to the hospital's huge revolving door and then drove away. Dale gave up on having his ear reconstructed and decided to go through life with the severed ear as a memento of audacious escapades. He turned himself in to the police a couple of days later, since he was already officially on file with them. Saul wanted nothing to do with either the hospital or what he considered its close cousin, law enforcement, and opted to keep a low profile and use his grandma's antibiotic prescription for the multiple stab wounds. 

Saul shifts and murmurs something. His face is practically in Dale's armpit, because Dale has his arm around him for some reason, and it's hopelessly numb by now because Saul has probably been sleeping on it the entire night. Saul's mouth is slightly open and Dale's pretty sure that Saul's drooled a wet spot where his head is propped against him. He looks over at the clock and has a momentary panic attack when he sees "12:38" in big accusing red digits-- but no, it's Saturday, and he didn't have to report for community service at nine a.m.

He really lucked out, Dale contemplates. In the end he was only convicted of possession of cannabis. Other charges were dropped because the police officer who filed them had been found to be corrupt. And, well, dead-- that helped tremendously. As for the reckless car chase, the officer whose car had been hijacked herself vouched that Mr. Denton had been well-behaved and cooperating. For the _life_ of him, he could not vaguely describe, much less identify, the sociopath who broke into and stole the police vehicle. Probably one of the many goons who died in inferno, the defense lawyer triumphantly proclaimed. And so, Dale ended up with probation, to do 500 hours of community service, and a big fine, but no time in county jail whatsoever. He did end up losing his job during the month or so it took to put the case through the court system, and would have been hard-pressed to pay his rent, but Saul came through and offered the couch in his apartment. So here he was, most of his possessions in storage, living for several weeks in the home of his dealer.

Saul was not the easiest person to live with-- he was a slob at first glance, but a slob with a system, who invariably complained if Dale took it upon himself to reorganize anything in the kitchen. And then there were the very awkward aspects of seeing Saul at all times of the day. A few days after moving in, Dale returned home from delivering meals to the elderly and giving a high school assembly a douchebag speech about his life as a cautionary tale to never smoke weed. He came in without knocking, granted, because Saul had made him a copy of the key-- though he was paranoid about Dale losing it to the point where it was insulting. Knock or no knock, Saul probably wouldn't have stopped anyway. He was sitting, transfixed by his laptop screen, porno sounds and his own superimposed hip hop soundtrack booming through his fancy surround speakers, jerking himself off rapidly, hardly missing a beat with Dale's entrance, only raising up his unoccupied hand in salute, a spacey 'Hey' exhaled just before he winces and spasms into a Kleenex.

Dale stood for a few beats, watching Saul breathe heavily, wipe sweat off his brow and finally turn to him with a smile.

"Dude, that's sick. Why're you doing that out in the living room?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why don't you go do it in the shower, or, I don't know, your bedroom at least?"

"Cause then I can't hook up the laptop to the subwoofer stuff. What's wrong with the living room anyway?"

"I, uh, sleep on that couch and just maybe don't want your spunk ending up on my face, I guess? Didn't really need to see you jerking off either."

"What? What are you on, bro? I mean, you _live_ here now, so you can't expect me to be like all shy and fake. It's totally natural."

"Yeah, so is taking a shit."

"Well guess what, I do take shits, I confess. You should try it sometime."

"Should I try it in your living room?"

It was the first unpleasant exchange they had since their spat while on the run, and Dale felt sheepish almost immediately after and apologized. Saul was probably right, and it was stupid to complain when you're staying at a friend's rent-free, and that friend even chipped in to pay your fine. Saul is such a good guy in many ways-- the best friend Dale had ever had, there was no denying it. So Dale never complained about it again, and even started taking part in it if their schedules lined up. Saul was so eager to do everything together, and it was more fun with two people, Dale had to admit. They'd load a streaming video, Saul would put on a hip-hop song in the background, running around the room setting up wires and knobs, like some master DJ of titillation, finally jumping on the couch taking his cock out of his pant hole and they'd jerk off together with the music and the gasping and sighing pumping loud enough to vibrate through the floor and couch into their bodies. It was the advantage of living in that shitty neighborhood-- no one ever cared about noise. Saul would put on solo girls or lesbian porn, because Dale confessed he preferred those. They'd jerk off, smoke some weed if Dale didn't have a scheduled drug test coming up, and Saul would go and make Pop-Tarts or something equally inappropriate for dinner. They were fun evening, Dale had to admit, especially now that he was broken up with Angie and didn't really feel like he could date anyone at least until he was off probation and living in his own place again.

Saul shifts, and Dale tries to remember why it is that they're both in Saul's bed instead of him on the couch in the living room. The bed's infinitely more comfortable, even with Saul there, preventing half of him from moving. Yesterday... he came home... complained about how boring and tiring it was to repaint the senior citizens' center's roof... Saul had brought him Kraft mac & cheese and rubbed his head in empathy like some bizarre, dirty June Cleaver... he really is an affectionate guy... then... Saul offered to try the new Purple Haze shipment he got from the Asian cartel in the next town over... "nowhere near as good as the Pineapple Express, but Ted's hydroponics are dead, so what are you going to do..." Dale had to refuse because he was meeting up with his probation office on Monday and God knows if he'll want a random urine analysis... And then...

Saul breathes in deeply, chest expanding against Dale's much flabbier torso, mouth finally closing, and his eyes making the most cautious move to open. He squeezes them shut again, burying his head into Dale's body.

"What time is it?" Saul's breath is a series of bursts against Dale's side.

"It's like almost one, dude. Get up."

"Oh shit," Saul's face reemerges. He tenses his body into one long stretch, then relaxes back, practically melting off the bed onto the floor. He stands, yawning, scratching his chin with the scrawny facial hair, scratching the back of his neck, and slipping his other hand under his shirt and polar tee to scratch his stomach. His eyes are barely open. "Shit, these guys are going to start showing up soon. I'm gonna go take a shower," Saul finally proclaims. "So don't flush the toilet if you go in there."

"Yeah, I know, man. I won't. Go already."

Saul hoists up his pants a bit, so you can't see the treasure trail between the end of his shirt and waistband anymore, finally turning around and dragging his feet as he heads to the bathroom. He can't still be high, but there's always residual THC in his manner. It makes Dale wonder whether you can fry your brain permanently. Then again, Saul's just not a morning person. And the fact that 1pm is considered "morning" just shows how far they let themselves go on weekends.

But, yes, what did happen last night? Dale refused the weed... at least, hopefully he refused, God, he can't remember for sure now... Saul offered him something else that leaves the system instantly... he was being all proud of speaking in technical terms, calling it by the chemical name... Amyl nitrate? Emile Nightraid? What the fuck. It was all slowly coming back to him... Dale had taken a whiff, and it felt like his heart would burst out of his chest, and that his cock had tripled in volume or something. It was fun but very short. Saul took it too, in solidarity... they kept taking shots of it, yes, that's what happened... laughing hysterically... too dizzy to stand up... "delectable bubble butt"... that phrase was suddenly on the tip of Dale's tongue and it vaguely aroused him. Had he said it? Had Saul? Oh God... he repeated it, whispering out loud, and could definitely remember grabbing Saul's ass... biting Saul's ass... it all seemed really funny at the time.... ohgodohgod... they went to the bedroom, clasping at each other to be steady, but both falling over... that's probably why his knee was vaguely sore this morning, now that Dale thinks about it. Yes. He totally fucked Saul last night, on this very bed.

Dale listens to the sound of the shower water coming down and wonders how much Saul remembers from yesterday He waits eight long minutes on the clock, then finally can't take it anymore. He can never understand why Saul takes such long showers, since he doesn't seem to bother using soap or shampoo. Not that it's any of Dale's business. Dale comes into the bathroom and sits down on the baby blue rug covering for the toilet lid.

"Hey, um... Saul?"

"Yeah?"

Dale can't really make out Saul's body behind the shower curtain-- it's transparent but there's a bunch of cartoon tropical fish painted on it.

"Hey man, how much do you remember from last night?" Dale shouts over the noise of the water.

Saul's head emerges from the side of the curtain. "I remember, bro. I didn't even smoke week in the evening. Plus my ass like, _still_ hurts. I mean, it's not your fault or anything, but jaysus, I'm surprised."

"Oh. Well... I'm sorry... so... do you happen to remember if we used, you know, a condom, maybe?" Dale really wishes he didn't have to semi-shout all this.

"Uh, no, why would we have to do that?"

"I don't know, like... STD's."

"What the fuck, man. What are you insinuating that I'm this big total slut, and I've got a menagerie of STDs or something?"

"Menagerie?"

"Yeah, like chlamydia and gonorrhea and shit? Because I am _so_ clean. I'd be a pretty douchebag friend if I didn't tell you I had herpes or whatever, wouldn't I?"

"Um, yeah, okay." Dale still tries not to think too hard about the implications of this little indiscretion. Yeah, it was gay sex, but they were high. High gay sex is probably different. Saul is admittedly kind of hot in a weird way, for a guy, but...

Saul shuts off the water and steps out onto the rug, toweling his (still stringy?) hair dry, and Dale watches his naked body move, now under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, under Dale's sober gaze, without Emily Nightride whiffs giving him a raging hardon. No, Saul's definitely not what he's into. Those bulky guy shoulders... his tit-less chest... although now a more detailed memory of last night creeps in... Saul is on the bed, below him, wiggling his hips, shirts still on, only the pants lying on the floor, and Dale leans in, stick his nose into Saul's breastbone, and gathers up Saul's-- what are those? pecs?-- around his face, the illusion of volume, and he slurs happily "Look, you've got titties now," and Saul laughs as if there's great wit to be found in that, so hard that his eyes scrunch up and his whole body shakes, finally pushing Dale to go ahead and fuck him already, as hard as the amyl nitrate will let him.

Dale realizes he's sprouting a major boner at the memory, and it probably doesn't help that he's staring at Saul's perky ass.

"Hey, um," Saul suddenly says, wrapping the towel under his arms and approaching Dale, running his fingers through the jewfro that he seems to like to touch. "I'll go and make breakfast, I guess?"


	2. November 1, 2007

Saturday turns out to be excruciatingly awkward. Saul tries to concentrate on work, organizing and weighing out pot varieties into smaller packets in his bedroom. Yet it's impossible to ignore Dale vegging out in the living room, flipping through equally horrible channels of daytime TV just to avoid making conversation or even eye contact. Some of the clients already know Dale, but most throw odd looks at him when they enter. One even pushes himself into Saul's usually off-limits bedroom and asks in hushed tones whether Dale is FBI and they're all getting busted as soon as they walk out, and couldn't he have a reprieve because really he's only a casual user-- Saul knows, Saul can vouch for it-- and he can't afford to go to jail right now, etc. etc.

"Would you mind lighting up a joint?" Saul finally asks Dale. "The clients get nervous. So many of them are like paranoid to begin with and then seeing you here, they start going all nuts or buying only the smallest amounts."

"Sure, no problem," Dale says, eyes not daring to leave the television set, jaw clenched.

"Thanks, man. I'll give you the best stuff. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Saul's heart sinks when Dale won't even look at him while taking the joint he wrapped for him. Forget wanking together ever again-- even saying good night is too much. Saul closes the door of his bedroom and stands biting his lip, resolving to visit Red tomorrow, not only because he's running low on the snicklefritz, but because he needs advice.

***

Red is out of the hospital, but on crutches, in a neckbrace, still bandaged up. In short, he looks worse than before medical care, if possible. None of this prevents him from trying to redo all the curtains in his house. 

"Good to _see_ you, nigga!" Red smiles and attempts to high-five Saul though that ends in more tears than expected. "How's it _go_ ing, Saulmeister."

"Pretty good, pretty good," Saul says, smiling right back, then twisting his mouth. "Yeah, Dale moved in with me."

"No kidding!" Red's grin fades. "Hey, so wow, you guys are that tight, huh? How come you never offered to move in with me?"

"Oh, I didn't know you need to..."

"No, no--"

"Seriously, you're welcome any time."

"No, no, forget it, man. A man needs his space, you know what I'm saying? Like, I'm totally cool with you, but it's like better that we're apart like this." Red illustrates each point with his hands like some Zen Buddhist teaching. Saul nods along.

"Yeah, yeah... I can totally see that, man. That's what I came to ask you about, actually. Like, it was really fun when Dale first moved in, because we'd like smoke up some good weed, and watch crazy shit together. But like recently we sort of did something, and now Dale's all awkward, and I like don't even wanna be in my own apartment... Like, I'm contemplating staying here for a while, because it's just so bad."

Red squints his eyes and attempts to fold his arms as best as he can with braces on. "So what, you guys like totally fucked or what?"

"Well, yeah. Took some poppers and... whoosh. You know how it all goes down."

"So you want to keep fucking, but Dale's not game."

"No, bro, what the hell. It's nothing like that. I just want to be friends. Like, I deal pot all day and Dale comes home from the job and I'm like 'hey, how was work?' and he's all 'pretty shitty' and I go 'yeah, I know that feeling' and then we smoke together and laugh at all that stuff. You know?"

"Well, you gotta set boundaries. That's really important-- don't underestimate boundaries when living together."

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know. No french kissing, but mutual handjobs are okay, or like no getting naked with each other in bed unless there's a hooker there too. That sort of thing. So you agree on this, and next time you get high or take poppers or whatever you have the so-called inner yardstick to let you know if you're doing wrong. Are you getting me?"

"Oh my God, man, that makes so much sense. Inner yardstick."

"Yeah, so then hopefully Dale feels safe and comes back out of his shell. It's all about _trust_ , man."

"Fuckin' A." Saul nods. "Right on. Man, you always know exactly what you're talking about."

"It's not a gift, it's a skill. You cultivate it, understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, man."

"Seriously, are you sure you want to be friends with that guy? He seemed kind of straightedge or something."

"No way. He's so cool, especially when he gets high. I really like him."

"Ok, I shouldn't judge, I don't know him well enough. He was, like, really pushy and bossy though."

"He's not bossy. I just wish he wasn't so freaked out, you know?"

"You know, you can't really blame him in this situation. Like, if I were living with you, I would probably end up taking you up the ass within a week. Like out of sheer Brownian motion and shit. It's like, it just calls out to the universe."

"Really?" Saul says, trying to twist and see for himself. "That's in a good way, though, right?"

"Oh yeah, man. Definitely." Red gives him a smack on the face and then on the rear for emphasis. "But I wouldn't have freaked out later. I'd probably use it as an excuse to fuck you again and again."

"Aww, Red, you're always exaggerating stuff."

Saul helps Red hang up the new curtains, and they grill hotdogs out on Red's patio. Saul bounces on Red's yoga ball until Red purses his lips and tells him to stop, because the splinters on the patio deck are going to pop it sooner or later, and Saul puts it away. Finally it's time to go, and Saul packs away several huge ziplocs of pot in his duffel bag.

"I love you man," Red shouts as Saul's walking across his lawn. "Peace, brother. Live strong!"

Saul raises his fist in the air. "Live strong."

"And come visit me more often, homiesexual-- not just when you run out of stuff to sell!"

"Arright, bro."

***

By the time Saul walks back to his apartment it's dark. Dale is still watching TV.

"Hey man..." Saul huffs after the trek up the stairs.

"Hey."

"You have to go in early tomorrow?"

"Yeah, gotta show up at 8."

"Oh. That sucks. I'll go to bed early too, then."

Dale finally looks over at Saul. "Yeah, thanks, but it's not like we have to go at the same time. You can stay up."

"No, man, I meant like, so that there's no light from my room, and then I'm walking around brushing my teeth at 3am or something..." Saul trails off when Dale raises his eyebrows. "... That's all."

"Your apartment, man. You do whatever the hell you want."

"Hey, I'm just trying to be nice. Ever since yesterday you've been acting like I've wronged you or something, and guess what-- it's really getting annoying."

"Oh, what? What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Keep being friends with me?"

"That's the rent payment now?"

Saul's jaw clenches and he starts blinking. "Yeah it's the rent payment. Why not. Is it too much to ask to want to live with a guy I can actually hang out with?"

"Yeah, whatever man. Tell me what to do to make you feel all comfortable and warm and fuzzy, and I'll do it."

"Fuck you. You know what Red said our problem was? That we didn't set, like, ground rules."

Dale's entire body tenses. "What problem. What are you talking to Red about this for, are you nuts?"

"I just went and asked him about how to fix our situation..."

"Situation?"

"Yeah. Yeah, situation. You're so lame sometimes. No wonder buyers think you're like a narc or something."

"Red? Fucking Red? Why would you tell him... how is that any of his business?" Dale's shouting by now. "How is that any of his business for you to tell him about?"

"He's my friend. I can talk to my friends about anything I want."

"Yeah, okay--" Dale's phone rings, and he flips it open, stomping off into the kitchen. Saul goes into his bedroom and slumps on the unmade bed face down. The door is open so he can still hear Dale's entire conversation.

"Oh, hey Ange. Did you get my message? -- Yeah, no, I just wanted to hear how you're doing and stuff. Is everything back to normal by now? -- Sweet. -- Mmhmm. -- Yeah, sure, it's no problem. -- Yeah, that sounds great, I'm really happy for you. -- Oh yeah, I'm doing fantastic. Well, considering. Staying with a friend for a while. -- Yeah. -- Ok, bye. Talk to you later."

Saul waits for a few moments of silence and decides to be thirsty so he has an excuse to go in the kitchen. Dale is sitting in the kitchen at the little table, propping his chin up with his hands, back in a defeated arch. Saul moves past him to the fridge and pulls out a carton of orange juice.

"Just talked to Angie."

Saul swallows down a mouthful of OJ. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I don't know. It kind of sucks. I'm kind of happy for her, that her life's back to normal, and it's not like I even aspire for her to take me back after all that, but... now she's dating fucking Sporty Spice."

"What, seriously? You turned her lesbian?"

"No, it's this stupid annoying jock. Actually, he probably isn't even that stupid, probably smarter than me."

"No way man. He's, what, seventeen? Who's smart when they're seventeen?"

"Yeah, well."

"I don't think Angie knows what she's doing. You probably need a girl who's more mature."

"What, so even you disapprove of me dating a seventeen year old?"

Saul shakes his head quickly, cheeks puffed out full of juice, trying to quickly swallow it down in order to speak. "No, bro, no. Hell, I've dated a seventeen year old."

"Heh. When you were in high school you mean?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't think that changes anything." Saul thinks back to it-- his first and only girlfriend, kind of pretty but really mostly with him for the free pot. 'Girlfriend' might be a bit much. She walked around with him, and once gave him a blowjob in the boy's bathroom after school, but that was all.

"So Sporty Spice-- is he like girly or something?" Saul laughs as he takes another sip straight from the carton, ending snorting juice in his nose.

"Yeah... no... I don't even know why I call him that. Out of spite, probably, because he's all buff and handsome and not a loser."

"Come on, man, you're not a loser. How are you a loser?"

"I dunno. At least I used to have my own apartment. Now I'm like homeless, on probation, and I just don't feel like getting a job right now... That's pretty depressing, don't you think?"

Saul bites his lip. "Um, if you want to, like, bring girls here, I guess you could give me advance notice and I could let you have it to yourself, so it looks better."

"What? Bro, no!" Dale shakes his head emphatically. "That's retarded. You know, if they can't handle that I don't have my own place right now, then they're too stuck up for me anyhow."

"Well, you can bring whoever you want here," Saul says as he finally closes the fridge. "I don't mind."

Dale stares at him in silence for a moment. "Dude, why are you always so nice to me?"

Saul doesn't break eye contact, but starts rubbing his elbow compulsively. "Because you're smart, and funny, and you saved me, and I like having you around. Well, most of the time."

"Hey," Dale pulls Saul to sit on his lap, especially since there's only one chair in the kitchen. "I've been kind of rude to you."

"Yeah, man, why the hell did you yell at me for telling Red. That really freaks me out, when you get mad like that."

"Yeah, whatever, it doesn't matter. You know what? I'm glad we fucked. Because it's like something you'd want to try at some point anyway, right? We both tried it and we both saw it wasn't our thing, right?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Saul says, but his eyes dart away. He feels Dale wrap his arms around his torso.

"And it's not like anything's changed," Dale says.

"Yeah, I don't think so either. Nothing, like, irrevocable, right?"

"Exactly. So thanks for letting me stay in your apartment."

Dale squeezes Saul hard in a bear hug. 

"BFFFs?" Saul says with some difficulty, as his lungs are hard to expand in Dale's hold.

"Best fuckin' friends forever."

"So are we still going to beat off together, or is that like a thing of the past?"

"For you, man? I draw the line at reciprocated handjob."

"Sweet." Saul hugs Dale right back, feeling a twinge in his crotch when he imagines what Dale mentioned just a bit too vividly. He immediately wonders whether 'draw the line at' is inclusive or not, but it's not like he has the guts to ask now.


	3. Dec 25, 2007

Saul never invited Dale to the nursing home before-- Dale knows he goes to visit his Bubbe a couple of times a week, but there's never a good reason for him to tag along. Christmas is coming up, and Dale grudgingly makes a phone call to his parents in Canada, but about five minutes into the conversation determines that there's no way in hell he's going to visit them this year. Otherwise it'll be non-stop nagging about not having gotten a job yet. Saul was going to go and visit his Bubbe, and offered together, and this morning it felt like anything would be better than sitting around the apartment. So here they are, driving to the senior Christmas brunch, breaths visible in the car's cold interior, oldies on the radio.

"Hey, I'm really glad you're coming," Saul turns to Dale, who's driving. "It'll be more fun. Bubbe will be so psyched to see you."

"Heh, really? But she already met me, remember? When she drove us from the diner?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I think her memory's starting to go. Her hearing's going too."

"Well, she's still driving around, so that's good. And that lasagna she made for you a few weeks ago... in the Tupperware, she's still cooking like a pro."

"Oh so that's where it went." Saul lets out a small laugh. "I was all confused about where it disappeared."

"Oh shit, yeah, I helped myself, sorry . It was like top-grade stuff, even after microwaving. I figured you didn't make it yourself."

"Hey!" Saul shoves Dale. "That's not nice. It's not like you ever make anything in the kitchen."

"I didn't say what you cook is bad-- but she's like, really Italian, right? It shows, the lasagna was amazing and all authentic and stuff."

"Oh, um, she's Jewish. But yeah, Long Island. Same thing, pretty much. They're all kind of similar over there."

Dale smirks. "So we're visiting your Jewish Bubbe for Christmas?"

"She wants to give me something, okay? Plus, they're throwing some kind of party for all the old people."

They walk in through the automatic doors and wait for someone to let them in without swipe access. As soon as they walk into the lobby it feels like Saul is some kind of celebrity. Lots of old bespectacled eyes squint at him and then dentures flash in recognition.

"Oh my gosh, it's Solly!"

"Hey Mrs. Mendelssohn," Saul says, high-fiving the old lady. "Is my Bubbe around? She wasn't answering her phone."

"Cloris, Cloris, where's Faye gone off to? Get Faye, Solly's here. My, you look so much better than when I last saw you, _bubeleh_. You are just brimming with health. Look at those red apple cheeks, Edith."

Many old ladies gather around test it out for themselves by pinching Saul's cheeks, as he laughs nervously and looks back at Dale.

"I think it's just the cold weather, really. Oh and this is Dale, my friend who's living with me."

"Oh what a handsome fellow!" The throng of Esthers, Pattys, and Beas transfers itself quickly over to Dale to shake his hand, ask him what his job is, ask him if he's married yet, and inform him that he'd look even more adorable with his hair neat and trimmed. Saul rolls his eyes with a lopsided smile, and drags Dale out of the crowd by the hand to go and look for his Bubbe. They find her in the cafeteria, already seated for the bingo that's going to take place during the brunch.

"Solly... Solly, you forgot to call," she shout-speaks in a weird mix of sternness and affection.

"Bubbe, I did call. You weren't picking up. Anyway, Bubbe, meet Dale. He's the guy living with me."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Belogus."

Bubbe squints as she looks him over. "Oh what a nice young man you are. Solly's told me everything about you."

"Oh yeah?" Dale says with as much friendliness as he's capable of.

"He said you work in a law firm--"

"Not exactly."

"--and that you deliver subpoenas--"

"Used to." 

"-- My brother worked in a law firm, God rest his soul. It's very good business. It's a tremendous thing, to be a lawyer, wouldn't you say? You must be one sharp young man."

Dale gives up. "Thank you."

"You know, I keep telling Solly to go into law, but he won't have it. Good head on his shoulders, but--"

"Bubbe, I'm gonna go to community college, okay? Just not right now. There's a lot going on."

Bubbe probably doesn't hear most of what anyone tries to interject. "-- but he's a nice young man, isn't he?"

"Oh yes," Dale fills in quickly.

"What?" Bubbe shouts, whole face contorting in efforts to hear.

"Yes, he's wonderful," Dale says much louder, and Saul lets out an embarrassed laugh.

"Come on, Bubbe, I wouldn't have time to visit you if I was doing one of those jobs. So when's the food coming?"

"Wha..? Oh, the food will be out at eleven, they said, sweetie."

Dale watches Saul down cottage cheese, apple sauce, stewed prunes, and all those wonderful things designed to keep old people's bowels moving and dentures in place. He sticks with the hot apple cider. Saul is a fiend with the plastic fork, going back for thirds already. He comes back and takes a sip of the non-alcoholic eggnog he got on this last trip.

"B8!" They announce over the loudspeaker, and all the seniors scramble to find it on their grids.

"What did he say?!" Bubbe shouts.

"Vee Eiwt," Saul says through a mouthful of prune compote. Bubbe shakes her head frowning, and Dale repeats it sans gluttonous speech impediment.

"Solly, you should try to speak like your friend. He's got such a lovely clear voice."

"Okay, Bubbe. Will do," Saul says in a lower, halting voice and bursts out laughing when Dale punches his stomach lightly.

"So Mrs. Belogus, how do you like living in this place?" Dale says, in efforts to avoid falling asleep.

"Oh it's wonderful, it's wonderful," she shouts back. "We play checkers in the afternoon, and we've got a TV set in the lounge, and..."

Dale suddenly notices that Saul has stopped shoveling food into his mouth and is staring off into space.

"Hey, man, are you okay?"

"I dunno..." Saul says, probably about to say something else when a torrent of sour eggnog spills out on the table in front of him.

"Holy crap!" Dale says, but quickly spins his friend around on the seat to face outward. Saul's torso convulses again, and everything he's been eating comes up as a foul, sour soup, this time at least landing on the floor.

"Solly! Sweetie, are you sick?" Bubbe shouts. This is perhaps the only thing that can really distract her from a bingo game, Dale figures.

"It's not because I punched you, right?"

"Um, no, I don't think so," Saul says, wiping his lips against his sleeve.

Dale throws down napkins on the table and floor and begins to wipe the latter using his foot.

"Oh, Dale, don't bother... here I'll clean it up..." Saul says, leaning down, which promptly causes him to throw up some more, this time onto Dale's sneaker.

"Dude, just sit for a second. Uh... a little help here?" Dale directs his plea a janitor-looking youngish guy on the other side of the room. "Come on..."

"Solly! Solly, pumpkin, what's wrong?"

Saul shakes his head, afraid to open his mouth again. Dale delegates the cleanup job to a guy equipped with a mop and takes Saul over to the restroom. He stands outside the stall, idly swinging the door back and forth. "Why the fuck did you eat all that, bro? It's like all gastric disturbance crap."

"I was hungry," Saul whimpers between retches. It's already the dregs of the meal, entering the toilet in small spurts. He finally straightens himself up when there seem to be no more stomach cramps. "Besides, I really think it's the weed. It's like this new Northern Lights shipment... ever since I've been smoking it I feel all sick in the mornings when I wake up, and then like, _crazy_ munchies later. It's really weird."

"Um, I really think washing down apple sauce and prunes with non-alcoholic eggnog is going to do it all on its own."

"I don't know, man. It all tasted so good on the way down. I don't even like prunes, usually, but these were awesome."

"Eww, my shoe smells like vomit now. Just don't eat any more of that stuff when we go back."

"Um, yeah, duh, I'm not a dumbass. Man, I feel all shaky. I threw up yesterday too. I seriously think it's the weed, which sucks, because I paid good money for it, and now what... I don't think I can go and get a refund from the Asians. But they must have sprayed it with fuckin' pesticides or _something_ nasty, because I've been feeling like shit lately. And that's supposed to be my current good stuff, sadly enough. Sometimes, I swear, I wish Ted was still alive."

"Hmm, I don't. Seriously, stop worrying about it. Let's just go back, and don't eat anything for God's sake."

***

The bingo game is over by the time they come back to the cafeteria, and they follow Saul's bubbe to her apartment. She rummages through her things and pulls out a present for Saul-- some knit mittens and a hat, which Saul immediately puts on.

"Things never change," she says as she shuffles around looking for something, forgetting what it was, tidying up, then remembering and looking again. "Solly used to throw up all the time when he was a little boy. Used to get these stomach viruses a lot... stomach flus. Have you heard of stomach flus, Dale?"

"Yes, Mrs. Belogus." Dale is sitting at the end of the couch, Saul is curled up in a fetal position over the rest of it, mittened hands clasping his stomach.

"It was awful. Awful diarrhea too... He'd run back and forth many times a day, so we couldn't send him to school like that, could we?"

"Bubbe, come on..." Saul mutters, but he's speaking practically into the couch cushion, and she doesn't hear him.

"He was such a sick child. Anything anyone ever got in his class he'd bring home to us."

"So you're Saul's maternal grandmother, right?" Dale tries to keep courteous conversation going with Saul's Bubbe but get her away from discussing childhood ailments.

"Oh no, my boy was Solly's father. I kept my maiden name, you know?"

"Oh! That was pretty rare back in the day, wasn't it?"

"We got divorced, so I changed it back."

"Oh."

Faye Belogus relates in a sort of meandering way how she raised Saul's father all by herself, how Saul's father met a woman-- "lovely but difficult. You know what I mean by difficult?" -- how the parents split soon after Saul was born and Saul's mother went to Hawaii with a new boyfriend while Saul's dad left for California to playboy it up.

Saul finally lifts his head. "Bubbe, I think you're boring Dale to tears."

"No, no, I'm sort of intrigued, you know? Saul never tells me these things. So what happened to his dad?"

"He was a good boy, you understand, but that woman had left him with a child, and he was still young..." Saul's bubbe has a remarkable capacity for explaining away relatives' faults, Dale notices. "So I raised little Solly, and his father is off in California and dies of an aneurysm, God rest his soul. And time flies, let me tell you. One minute you change diapers, the next Solly's graduating from high school..."

Saul's bubbe pulls out her wallet with frail hands, and starts thumbing through the pictures until she gets one of Saul's graduation.

"Oh, Bubbe, don't. Those pictures are terrible..." Saul says, but she ignores him and begins showing Dale the graduation photos.

"Wasn't he just adorable?" Saul's bubbe coos at the pictures.

"I don't think he's changed that much," Dale says looking back and forth. If anything, the pompom hat makes the current version of Saul seem more juvenile. "Hey, wait, you were class of 1997?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Wait, how old are you?"

"He's twenty one," Saul's bubbe offers helpfully.

"Bubbe, what? No..." Saul thinks hard. "Um, twenty eight. No, I mean, twenty nine."

"Geez, man. That's old!"

"What? I'm still in my twenties!"

"I don't know, I totally thought you were younger than me for some reason."

"Solly, what are you on about?"

"Bubbe, it's 2007. The end of 2007 already."

"Solly, when are you going to get married?"

"I don't know. Maybe soon, Bubbe."

The teakettle whistles, and Saul's bubbe proceeds to pour him some strange tea decoction. There's an awkward silence as it stands brewing, before she gives it to him. "Here, this will make your insides calm down, sweetie."

Saul drinks it down quickly, grimacing, then flops back on the couch. Saul's bubbe offers them sultanas, then says she needs her afternoon nap, and Dale and Saul agree that it's a good time to go. 

They sit in Dale's car, waiting for the engine to warm up. Saul is breathing into his mittens in efforts to do the same.

"Thanks for coming, Dale. Bubbe was really happy, she thinks you're a good influence."

"Little does she know." Dale laughs, and puts the car in reverse, grabbing Saul's seat as he surveys the back for stray seniors before pulling out. "So wait, seriously, you're almost thirty?" Dale asks.

"Ugh, yes. Why are you so hung up on this."

"I just... I don't know... You should really be starting a career or something, shouldn't you?"

"Oh my god, don't even start. Sometimes you're such a tool. You've like, absorbed Bubbe sensibilities."

"Well, at least go and take some classes in something. Like those daytime TV commercials they keep advertising for two year colleges."

"Yeah, man, I'm totally going to do that, but I can't right now because I gotta support my Bubbe. And you, actually."

"Touche. But I'm totally going to get my act together as soon as this community service stuff is over, so you can stop using me as an excuse."

"Uh-huh."

"And dude, I think your grandma's right in a way-- you should really try to date someone at some point. I mean, that's no way to-- How the hell do we get out of this parking lot?" Dale asks, frustrated after wheeling around and around the building trying to follow the arrows on the pavement. He looks over at Saul.

"Saul, oh my god, not in the car, open the fucking door!"

Saul manages to open it in time, barfing out tea, followed by orange gunk onto the parking lot.

"Last night's Cheez Doodles..." Saul mutters with a measure of regret.

Dale shakes his head in disgust. "Jesus, you are a total mess."

Saul closes the door, dejected, tears actually running down his face. "Maybe if you didn't turn us around in like seven circles per minute..." he says, sniffing.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, what the hell are you crying for?"

Saul shrugs and emphatically looks out the window, drawing in the fog on the glass.

"Hey, come on. Thanks for not ruining the car. I appreciate it..." Dale rubs Saul's knee, noticing that Saul must have gotten vomit flecks on his hat's ear flap tassles while leaning down, but decides not to say anything about it. "Okay, seriously, what's wrong?"

"I don't know, I just feel really, really shitty."

"Here, have a Juicy Fruit or something, get that taste out of your mouth."

Dale wonders if it's something he said earlier, but neither of them talks, and Dale is forced to tune into talk radio to fill in the quiet.


	4. Dec 25, 2007

"I don't know, I don't feel anything weird. It's quality stuff," Dale says, after sucking back a mushroom cloud. He's been testing the new batch of Northern Lights for half an hour already, while Saul lit up the Snicklefritz for solidarity. "So I think it's you having some bug."

"Oh, that's good."

"How is that good?"

"Well, it means that I can keep selling it with a clear conscience. That I'm not like giving people expensive poison."

"No, but what about you?"

"Oh, it'll pass, whatever it is. Thanks so much for testing it."

"Heh, like it's a _chore_. I just hope it'll be out of my system after New Year's. They might do a random drug test again..."

Dale trails off, and Saul realizes he's been staring at him with a stupid smile on his face. He moves in closer on the couch, arm extending around Dale's shoulder, brushing his fingers through Dale's hair, stroking the mangled ear.

"What would I do without you, man?"

Dale laughs, looking down at Saul's thighs. "Um... probably be better off? Not spend money on food for two people? Sell more pot because people aren't nervous?"

"No, I mean, I'd be so lonely." Saul fingers Dale's collar-- he's still dressed up nicely, and Saul loves that he dressed up to make a good impression on Bubbe, even if it seemed to turn him into a judgmental tool. Saul still wishes Dale didn't think he was a lazy bum, but it's easy to realize that Dale's got his best interests in mind when he says hurtful things like that.

"Okay, let's just fuck already," Dale blurts out.

Saul freezes, but recovers with a broad smile. "Sure."

"I just-- I just want to try it when I'm not high..." Dale justifies as Saul begins pulling off his pants. 

"Aren't you high right now?"

"Well, not blazed off my skull, I mean. Wait, here on the couch?"

"You want the bed?"

Dale nods and Saul goes over to his bedroom, wishing he'd made his bed, fluffing the pillow for no reason whatsoever, just to have something to do.

"This apartment's kind of chilly," Dale says.

"Really? We can turn the thermostat up."

"Well, I just mean, I don't think we should undress."

"What?" Saul says, just having stripped the last piece of clothing off.

"I don't know..."

"I'm fine this way, it's not cold."

Dale seems intent on not looking at Saul too closely, but he ends up staring. "Dude... you have to lay off the Cheez Doodles."

"What?" Saul surveys himself.

"What's up with that belly! I didn't even notice it under the sweatshirts before."

Saul puts his hand against his lower stomach, which is protruding more than he remembers, he has to admit. "I'm telling you I don't feel good. The stuff was giving me mad munchies."

"I don't know, dude..."

"Oh, like you should talk. What, am I too fat for your standards now too? Let's see, too lazy, too stupid, too old..."

"Hey, I'm not saying you're _fat_. It just looks strange. I'm just saying maybe watch what you eat, because that definitely wasn't there like, only a month ago."

"What, you were analyzing me?"

Dale reddens a little bit and Saul regrets being so hostile. He really does want Dale to fuck him, but the longer they stand around, the less likely that's becoming.

Dale folds his arms-- yet another sign that sex might not be happening, Saul worries. "Hey, man, whatever, I don't care. I'm just trying to look out for you, but it's none of my business, obviously."

"It's not even flabby, it's like hard. Maybe I'm just constipated. I don't remember the last time I went."

Dale grimaces. "Uh... well, then, maybe we should postpone this."

"You're not going to run into anything, man, if that's what you're worried about. There's nothing like, _right there_."

"Great, man, great. You really know how to set the mood."

Nevertheless, moments later Dale's between Saul's thighs on the bed, still fully dressed, tense as hell.

"Hey," Saul says quietly, "you really should take off your shirt. It's going to get all sweaty and nasty."

"Whatever. I don't care," Dale mumbles. "I just don't want you looking up and seeing all this jiggly stuff."

" _What_?"

"Trust me, it's better."

"No, man, don't you like being naked? Why are you so shy all of a sudden?"

"I'm not shy."

"I'm naked, so why are you worried?"

"Well maybe you should put a shirt on too."

"Why's that?"

"Because... you've got man-shoulders. It's not the biggest turn-on."

Saul stares at him and doesn't say anything.

Dale coughs, looking away. "Okay, sorry man, that was really stupid."

"Yeah, it really was," Saul says, nodding his head ever so slightly, one eyebrow cocked. "You know what else I have? Man-cock. FYI. Just a heads up."

"Whatever, forget it," Dale says, and Saul is about to get up and call the whole thing off, but Dale actually takes his thighs and pushes in without warning. Saul jerks at the pain and Dale stops dead in his tracks.

"You okay?"

"Um, yeah," Saul says, gripping Dale's shoulders, jaw tense, breathing deeply through his nose.

Dale starts to move back and forth timidly. "Oh my god, what is that sound?"

Saul looks down. "I think it's normal, man. It's like air suction, cause you're creating a vacuum--"

"Ugh, we should have put on music."

"We still can..."

"No, let's just... keep going... already..." Dale grumbles between thrusts.

Saul sighs, looking around the ceiling, hoping the friction on his cock between their torsos is going to make this pleasurable at some point.

"God, this seemed much more fun when we were high, didn't it?" Dale says, stopping for a moment.

"Oh, so you _did_ think it was fun?" Saul grins.

Dale laughs nervously. "Seriously, are you okay? You look like you're in pain."

"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe just stick some lotion on?"

"Okay. Will do." Dale goes into the other room and gets the Jergen's moisturizer they use for wanking sometimes.

Saul laughs when Dale pushes in again. "Oh god, that's even louder." 

"Feels better though, right?" Dale asks as he starts thrusting again. "Or is this a bad angle period?"

"No, it's totally better now... OW!"

"Oh my god, what?" Dale freezes up again, eyes wide with genuine fear.

Saul grimaces, moving his jaw back and forth. "I biw my hongue."

"Spit the fucking gum out already! Juicy Fruit only tastes good for like thirty seconds anyway." Dale reaches into Saul's mouth, and takes the piece of gum out, sticking it to Saul's forehead. Saul laughs, punching Dale, then sticks the gumwad to the headboard behind him.

"This is so retarded," Dale says, shaking his head.

"Haha, yeah, but I kind of like it, actually. Come on, keep going!" Saul notices that that was definitely the right thing to say. Dale goes at it full force again, a lot less self-consciously when Saul asks him to do it. And Saul definitely begins to feel something nice building up. Eventually, he locks his ankles around Dale's waist, hands grasping the headboard. "Don't stop, ohmyfuckingg-gah..."

There's cum on Dale's nice dress shirt. Saul's heart is pounding, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, limbs spasming a few more times after the initial shock.

"I told you to take your shirt off..." Saul slurs.

"Yeah, whatever. It'll wash off, right? It's just splooge."

"Did you see that?" Saul laughs. "Hands-free, mouth-free, vag-free..."

"Oh yeah, it was the definition of vag-free," Dale says, rolling his eyes, but he smiles.

"No, seriously, good job man, I totally didn't expect to come from that. You're amazing."

Dale laughs uncomfortably, then resumes thrusting, and Saul lies there, hoping that Dale will come too, anxious about whether he should be doing something to make it happen.

It does happen, though Dale's so quiet that Saul almost misses the moment. He just winces, sort of jerks forward and then stops, and slumps forward on his elbows, breathing heavily over Saul's chest but obviously making an effort not to collapse all the way down. Courtesies for women, probably, Saul figures, and pulls Dale down, wanting to feel that weight, wanting Dale to feel like he can just relax on top of him. Dale's head is right under Saul's chin and Saul rubs it back and forth against Dale's hair, fingers tracing the mangled ear again. Dale's breathing slows down, and he pushes up again, pulling out of Saul, and slumping down on the bed next to him. It's already getting dark outside. Saul gets up quietly and goes to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet until it feels like everything's dripped out. The doorbell rings and Saul saunters over to the intercom, still naked.

"On fucking Christmas? Plan ahead a little. All right, come on up."

Saul pulls his clothes back on and rummages through the dresser in his bedroom as quietly as he can, pulls out the scale and the weed, and smiles at Dale sprawled out sleeping on his bed, still in his fucking dress shirt and pants.


	5. January 28, 2008

Dale hears the ding of the microwave behind him and sighs as he turns the meat patty upside down and nukes it for another thirty seconds. This is the price for having to start from scratch in terms of employment, but it's still nice to feel that he's getting a paycheck. At least he can chip in for half of the rent on Saul's apartment.

He assembles the burger, slips it into the bag and puts it through to the girl working the counter. At what point should he move out? It's difficult to say. His salary's minuscule, but he could probably pay the rent on a studio of his own if he was going to take another evening job. So as soon as community service is done, and that's two months away...

It feels strange to think about moving out. Part of him loves coming home and seeing Saul, sometimes vegging out on the couch watching reruns, sometimes actually making dinner, sometimes carefully laying out and packaging up various brands of weed on the coffee table. Part of him loves that Saul will have sex with him as often as he wants, that he won't be bitchy or judgmental, and that he'll orgasm no matter what a crappy job Dale does. It's a far cry from anything he ever had going with a woman. Hardly any drama, no worries about making a good impression. No tits either, of course, but Dale misses them less than he thought he would. But there's always a voice at the back of his mind repeating that this is temporary, this is a makeshift solution to an unpleasant, temporary situation.

"This is just for fun, right?" Dale tried to verify one night.

"If it's not for fun, then for what?" Saul said, smiling, which was either very profound or a completely airhead response. In any case, it wasn't very satisfying, but Dale didn't dare rephrase the question.

Dale slides the next burger into the slot, gets it shoved back because he forgot to put sprinkle bacon bits on it. His life is a thankless gray landscape if he subtracts smoking weed and sex with Saul. And even those joys are rather pointless, it's hard not to admit.

Saul had probably spoiled him already, Dale sighs. What woman would come every single time, and so dramatically? In fact, if a woman ever did what Saul does when he comes-- all that violent shaking, gasping, even drooling sometimes-- Dale would just assume she was faking it.

One night Saul's whole body shuddered for about half a minute after he came. Dale had to laugh.

"I don't know, man," Saul finally mumbled, flushed like crazy. "I never used to have that. It's like all your doing."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, I'm just lying here, you're doing all the work."

Dale coughed then, looking sideways. "You don't mind, by the way?... that we never switch?"

"Switch what?" Saul pants out, chest still heaving.

"You know. Jobs. Positions."

"Oh. Um." Saul thinks for a moment. "Nah... I'm good. I'm pretty sure you're better at it anyways."

God, how can he give that up? That sort of casual, ego-feeding sex is hard to come by. It's not like Saul even turns him on, per se... Though lately that's not entirely true. There are only so many times you can only blow your load inside someone before the very thought of them becomes linked to sex.

It's time to switch positions in the fast food assembly line, and Dale drags his feet to go work the counter. He tries to beam but his facial muscles won't cooperate. He keeps checking the clock as discreetly as he can between customers. He feels like his brain is falling further into a coma with each order, until two familiar faces suddenly spring up in front of him. Dale hadn't even noticed them walking in or waiting in line.

"What's up, amigo? We came to visit you!" Saul says, still laughing at something Red must have said moments earlier. Or maybe just high. He tries to high-five Dale, but Dale remains standing nonchalantly. The supervisor better not be watching this from the back somewhere.

"Hey, Dale." Red leans on the counter with one elbow. "Long time no see."

"Yeah, hi, are you guys going to order something?"

"Yeah, I'm _starving_ ," Saul says. He proceeds to order a list of food until Red interrupts with a captious "Bro..."

Dale shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, he's been like this for a while..."

"No, I don't think he should be eating so much, given his infestation," Red says with more self-importance than Dale would like.

"His what?"

"Oh, yeah, hey!" Saul suddenly remembers, and jabs Dale in the arm several times. He _is_ more high than usual. "Me and Red totally figured out what's wrong with me, by the way. We think it's tapeworm. It totally explains the bloated stomach, and the crazy hunger... I just need to take Flagyl or something, WebMD says."

"WebMD? Why don't you go to a real doctor?" Dale is surprisingly irritated at the fact that he's working the counter while Red and Saul get to hang out, and laugh at probably inane inside jokes, and Red gets to figure out what's wrong with Saul in one afternoon even though Dale's been living with him for months.

"Haha, yeah right," Saul laughs. "I'll just get Bubbe to get a Flagyl prescription somehow."

"All right, your thing is coming. Red?"

"Yeahhhh... no thanks. I'm in training."

"Great. Move to the side, then," Dale says, dismayed at the six people lined up behind them.

He hands a big tray over to Saul, and tries to ignore the two while they sit eating in one of the booths. Saul keeps laughing periodically, half-chewed french fries almost spilling out. Red gives in and eats part of the McRib, and drinks some of the McFlurry. Through the same straw, Dale can't help but note with disgust. They're both such losers, hunched over their food, clothes and hair skanky, smelling like pot from yards away. And yet Dale can't be annoyed by Saul. It feels sad to say, but he wants to be sitting there with them, better yet just with Saul.

They finish up, and Saul suddenly comes back to the counter, eyelids barely open. "Hey, don't you have a break coming up or something?"

"No, I had one earlier. I'm here till seven."

"Geez, on a Saturday? Working for the Man full force, huh?"

"Guess so."

"You know, you don't have to work if you don't want to."

Dale smiles. "Yeah, that's incredibly tempting right now, but I really can't. I have to build up work cred again. Hopefully get a better job soon," he says, quietly enough so that the people working the back don't hear.

"Oh yeah, that makes sense," Saul says in an absent sort of way, squinting at the menu board again. "Hey, can you give us a large order of nuggets?"

"Dude, stop. It's the weed talking. You've had enough."

"I want it to _go_ , amigo."

Dale can't tell if Saul's terms of endearment get more Spanish because of being high or because of Red's presence. Either way, it's irritating. "Doesn't matter. Go home, don't smoke anymore, calm down."

"Hey, I have tapeworm. I'm like, malnourished probably."

"Then I wouldn't eat the meat here if I were you," Dale says, even more quietly than about his career aspirations. "That's probably how people get parasites in the first place."

"Eh... whatever. All right, see you at home then. Miss you lots." Saul gives him a light punch with the back of his fist and traipses back to Red.

Dale follows Saul with his eyes until he's out on street and out of sight. There's an anxiety there, Dale is loath to admit, probably unfounded, but then again he senses a hostility from Red... that they're rivals for Saul's... friendship?... affection? It's all synonymous with him. Suddenly Dale craves assurance that they _are_ more than accidental fuckbuddies, that only Dale gets to jam himself up Saul's ass, that only he gets to see Saul's sexface. It's like his paranoia over Angie all over again, and this time arguably a lot more pathetic. It's all really immature, and if he's going to be moving out he should really stop caring right about now, but he can't force himself to think about something else. He fucks up almost a third of the orders while working the back.

***

When Dale finally comes home, Saul is standing at the sink, washing all the dishes that have piled up since last week. Dale hugs him from behind and Saul leans into him, head tilting back on Dale's shoulder.

"Are you tired?"

"Yes," Dale puffs warm air into Saul's shoulder, lips pressed against his shirt. "I feel dead." 

"I'd be so tired. I could never work eight hours on a Saturday. Actually, I probably couldn't work eight hours period," Saul says, laughing quietly.

Dale bends his head sideways and studies Saul's mouth as it grins and speaks. He tries to work up the nerve to kiss said mouth but can't. It's a sad statement on the world, perhaps, that he's fucked Saul dozens of times, and yet kissing feels awkward and binding, somehow. There's stubble all over Saul's face. Angie's hair smelled like lovely synthetic strawberry. Saul's hair smells like... well, musty leftover pot, obviously, but there's this undercurrent of... God, what is that? Ketchup? Fucking _ketchup_?

"So what did you do with Red all day?" Dale asks, and regrets it immediately because he can't keep the jealousy out of his tone.

"Oh, you know..." Saul says, leaning back over the sink to resume washing dishes. His ass rubs against Dale's crotch, but Dale can't tell if it's on seductive purpose or not. "Played some video games at his house. He got a Wii, so that's pretty sweet. It got harder and harder to play the more we smoked. Then we got hungry and went to visit you. Then... we went to the park and watched the geese. It's really sad-- the old people come and feed the geese, so they never bothered to get their ass in gear and fly south and now they're like freezing off their feet on the ice and shit. It's crazy... I wish you were there. I missed you."

Dale lets his arms slide down Saul's torso, hands entering under the waistband of his pants.

"Oh, Dale? I thought I'd take a break from fucking for a while..."

Dale's breath catches in his throat. Why? Only a few days ago Saul was waxing poetic about how lately he's been getting spontaneous hard-ons forty times a day, and can hardly wait for Dale to come home every night, and how this sort of intensity hasn't happened since he was thirteen and this whole fuckbuddies setup has turned out to be a "cock renaissance," et cetera, et cetera. And now suddenly he's over it all?

"W-why?" Dale finally mutters, dutifully stepping away.

"Well, I don't know..." Saul rubs the back of his neck as he turns around and leans back against the sink. "It's just that, when I take a dump, there's all this white frothy mucus stuff. I mean, hopefully it's just your cocksnot or the moisturizer leaking out of me, like, hours later. So I want to just make sure it goes away..."

Dale winces. "TMI, dude, that's way TMI. Next time just tell me you have a headache."

Saul laughs. He jumps away from the sink when he realizes that the edge is wet and has drawn a wet line across his lower back. 

Just when Dale is about to seriously question his orientation, Saul invariably goes and proves a guy can never replace a girl in all respects. Angie would probably never call it 'cocksnot', for one thing, and she'd probably never start recounting what sorts of problems she encountered in the bathroom. Dale has trouble even picturing girls like Angie taking a shit. It's almost enough to make him try and call her up again, in case she broke up with that annoying classmate by now.

But then again Saul is so familiar, and convenient, and mellow, and... robust, compared to Angie. His hands are kind of rough, with wide-jointed, meaty fingers, but they're also warm and have such a nice grip when they sit down to watch porn together and jerk each other off. 

They end up kissing. Dale can't decide who really initiated it, but both of them were turning away from the screen little by little. It's a stubbly kiss, and Saul tastes like an ashtray, with raging cottonmouth to boot, but when Dale's on the verge of orgasm it all seems nice. They don't let go until Saul manages to rub one out of him, both of them moaning into each other's throats.

The porn is still playing-- the woman is on all fours getting rammed from behind. Saul yawns, stretching his arms and legs, and Dale's hand slinks up to his belly while it's temporarily exposed. Saul immediately folds back into fetal position, laughing weakly.

"Shit that tickles."

"So you think it's tapeworm?"

"Yeah, I mean, it really fits all the symptoms."

"Let's just go to the doctor and get you checked out. Where's the harm in that?"

"Bro, I told you, I don't want to go."

"Yeah, I gathered that. I just don't get why not."

Saul rolls his eyes. "Because they probably have me on file or whatever. I like haven't existed for years in their terms..."

"What, you don't file a tax return?"

"Nope."

"Driver's license?"

"Well, I got it when I was sixteen, but I didn't even renew it, so I think it's expired now."

"Shit, dude, you can't keep living like that. I mean, okay, so you sell pot. Lots of people do and they still have day jobs for cover. I still really think you should go to the doctor."

"No, man. Just drop it. I'm going to get the Flagyl and hopefully that'll take care of it. Remember how my bubbe got me the antibiotic prescription and I healed up after all that shit went down at Ted's hideout?"

"How's the fork wound, by the way?"

Saul smiles. "Yeah, your ex was a friggin' psychopath." Dale frowns. "At least that night. No offense. Don't get me wrong, she was hot. I think it was the deepest wound I had. It was all sore too, because there was probably, like, mashed potatoes that got in there."

"Let me see."

Saul takes off his shirts and twists his upper body so Dale can see the forkstab.

"Aww, it's a big scar, even after all this time," Dale says, applying his mouth to it and sucking. Saul's shoulders twitch. 

The woman in the porn is getting cum shot on her face and breasts as credits begin to roll. Dale licks up and down along Saul's spine a few times before pressing his cheek against Saul's back. "Seriously, let's go the doctor. I'll drive you. I'll sit with you in the friggin' room, if you want. I don't like the look of that. What if it's like, a tumor?"

"It's not a tumor." Saul smiles, shaking his head as he leans back into the couch back. "It's too symmetrical."

"So why's a tapeworm symmetrical?" Dale asks, not even so interested in the answer, just eager to prove Red wrong. "And a tumor can be symmetrical. It can be, like, any shape."

Saul sits for a moment, contemplating his protruding tummy, drumming his fingers against it. "Shit, what if it's like that scene in _Alien_ or whatever. Isn't a tapeworm this really ugly thing with sharp teeth and no eyes?"

"Um, probably, but it's not going to burst out of you." But Dale can see that Saul is starting to freak himself out.

"Shit, I don't want this thing. I don't want to go to sleep with it! What if it like, moves around at night?"

"Calm down, man."

Saul is shaking, breathing hard.

Dale sighs. "Dude, you _have_ to take it easier on the weed. It's been having a bad effect on you suddenly, these past few weeks."

Saul sniffles and shuts his eyes, still hyperventilating.

"Saul? What the fuck. You crying over this?"

"I just-- I just want to take the Flagyl already and flush it out. I don't want to go to bed with it."

"Well, you'll go tomorrow. You were fine a moment ago... calm the fuck down!"

Saul keeps shaking.

"Oh my God, man, you are such a wastebasket. Come here," Dale says, dragging Saul up to his feet and leading him to the bathroom, undressing him while running hot water into the bathtub. Saul slides down into the hot water up to his mouth.

"Better?"

"Mmhmm." Saul nods, bubbling into the water. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just get like a wave of like, I don't know... I want to start crying, and my face gets all hot."

"Dude. Let's go to the doctor tomorrow."

"No," Saul says curtly, and sinks down into the water up to his eyes.

"Whatever." Dale gets up to leave, splashing water on Saul's head. Saul jumps up and spits a stream of water on Dale's crotch.

Dale narrows his eyes. "You are so going to die, asshole."

Saul grins, until Dale dunks his head underwater and holds him there for a few seconds. Saul comes up coughing and laughing. "Let's go smoke some of the Light of Jah I have. I need some, you know, upliftment."

"Seriously, man, don't. Just take a break for a little bit."

"It's already been five hours. At least."

"Yeah, and your nerves are still shot. Just sit still for a while."

Saul leans over the edge, dragging his fingers along the bathroom tile back and forth with that ADD look in his eyes.


	6. February 23, 2008

Saul wakes up with a start in the middle of the night, not certain why. He hears Dale snoring from out in the living room. There was a brief period where they'd shared the bed, and it was wonderful. Saul liked being cramped and warm on the twin mattress, and always feeling a body next to him throughout the night. He wasn't sure if Dale liked it so much, but the bed is longer than the couch and at least he could stretch his legs out. Ever since Dale took the liberty of looking up info on tapeworms online he's segregated himself completely. He won't eat anything Saul touches, let alone prepares, and brings home takeaway. Saul doesn't say anything about it, but every time Dale forgets to throw out fast food wrappers or rice containers in the trash, it seems like there is no more depressing landscape than that littered coffee table in the morning. 

Bubbe managed to get him a Flagyl prescription through a friend in the nursing home who has parasites, and he's been taking it religiously for weeks now, even overdosing with it lately, but nothing changes. He doesn't even tell Dale about all the weird froth he sees coming out in the toilet, because that'll inevitably just make Dale want to move out faster. He's already looking, obviously. Saul finds these things out by looking through the internet history of the laptop after Dale uses it and usually seeing many Craigslist ads for apartments. He feels guilty about looking through that, especially since Dale trusts him enough not to clear out the history. So he carries this knowledge around, but doesn't ask about it, and Dale doesn't mention moving out to him, which makes Saul feel both angry and guilty for knowing otherwise. Dale's community service will be done in March, so he's probably aiming to move out after that. It hardly matters now that they don't even interact, but Saul still feels anxious about returning to living by himself again.

And his illness. As annoyed as he is that Dale suddenly became so informed and squeamish, he has to admit it's disgusting and disturbing. He doesn't feel the tapeworm bite, and there's no blood or anything, but sometimes he feels like everything he eats might as well be falling out a hole in his stomach because he rarely feels satisfied. And his belly's only gotten bigger, if anything, since he started the Flagyl. 'Tapeworms can grow to be 100 feet long', he's read online, and he really tries not to think about that too vividly.

There's a weird shift in Saul's stomach-- not a gurgle or growl. It feels like something blunt rubbing against his organs briefly. It happened the other day too, and he freaked out a bit, but he waited and it didn't happen again and he assumed he'd imagined it. He starts breathing more heavily, feeling his heart pumping in his ears. He lays his hand on his stomach and waits to see if it happens again. Before long he feels he has to get up and go take a piss. He has to get up almost every night lately, and it doesn't help if he drinks less fluids-- he just felt dehydrated and headachey.

He shuffles out of bed and goes through the living room as quietly as he can, turning on the light in the bathroom only after he closes the door so that he doesn't wake Dale. He feels it again, as he stands pissing, and this time he can see his stomach slightly change shape for a moment because he happens to be looking down to aim into the toilet bowl.

"Dale. Dale, wake up. Dale, please wake up," he's soon chanting, shaking Dale's shoulder back and forth.

Dale groans something and turns away, but Saul doesn't relent. "What. What, man. What the fuck, what time is it?"

"Dale, it's moving. The tapeworm's moving around. I can feel it."

Dale opens his eyes for a moment then closes them again. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know, man. It's freaking me out. I can't go back to sleep like this."

"Hey, I've been telling you to get it checked out since day one but you won't listen."

"Yeah, well, I don't know. I thought it was getting better for a while, on its own..."

Dale opens his eyes again and looks at the stomach Saul's exposing by lifting up his sweatshirt. "Holy fuck, man. That's much bigger than it was."

"Really?" Saul asks, dismayed.

"Ugh, that is sick, man. You must be, like, full of worms or something. That is fucking sick. I'm not even talking to you anymore unless you go to a doctor. You're gonna die of worm infestation."

"Maybe I should try to starve them out or something, like Red says?" Saul whispers.

"Listen, do whatever you want. I'm telling you to get a professional's opinion. Anyway, I have to be up at 7 tomorrow, so good night."

"No, Dale, wait, no," Saul stammers. "Please come to bed with me. I don't want to be alone when it's like moving and shit."

"Dude, no. Go to sleep."

Saul stands over Dale, seeing him fall asleep again easily. To Dale's credit, maybe it was hard to see how anguished Saul is in the dark. Saul lugs his blanket and pillow in from the bedroom, and lies down on the floor next to the couch. He feels the shift again one more time before he finally succumbs to fatigue.

Dale trips over Saul in the morning, cursing.

"Sorry," Saul mumbles, still half-asleep, watching Dale pull on his clothes to go to work. "I didn't want to be by myself in there."

"Yeah, well, I'm leaving now, so you'll have to deal with being by yourself," Dale says under his breath. Then when he sees Saul's mournful expression as he curls his body up tighter under the blanket, he seems to feel a bit of remorse. "Hey. You want me to drop you off at the hospital? If we go now, I can probably still be in to work on time."

"No," Saul says, pulling the blanket over his head. "I'll go later."

"Okay, suit yourself," Dale says, sitting on the coffee table to put his shoes on, because he's not about to clamber over Saul to sit down on the couch. Saul hears the door click and Dale's heavy footsteps thud down the stairs.

***

Dale returns to the apartment late, exhausted by a day of work and community service. It would be the perfect night to smoke a joint, but he has one of his last meetings with the probation officer tomorrow, and it would be such a shame to blow it close to the finish line. The policewoman is nice to him, hasn't insisted on visiting the apartment he lives in, and has only subjected him to an unannounced drug test once, but tomorrow is an announced one, so he can't even complain. He tries to decide which suit to wear to the meeting tomorrow as he unlocks the door.

"Saul?!" Dale coughs his way through a haze smoking up the entire living room. "Dude, what the hell? All my clothes must stink all the way through with this crap. You're gonna force me to go to the laundromat today just so I can wear something fresh tomorrow? I'm probably going to fail the fucking drug test just through inhaling your secondhand all night..."

Dale trails off when he blinks his way through the acrid air to look at Saul, seated on the couch, t-shirt riding up a little to reveal that alien-looking gross belly. Saul is still smoking, puffing furiously at a joint, many roaches strewed all over the coffee table suggesting he's been smoking up for hours. "Dude... talk to me."

Saul sighs, his sigh ending in a cough, looks at Dale through puffy red eyes and just coughs again.

"Saul, really, this is your place, and you can do what you want I guess, but this totally screws me over. I have that meeting with the probation officer tomorrow... I mean, what if she decides to visit this place? And she won't even have to. She'll be able to smell Northern Lights on my suit."

"It's Purple Haze," Saul says slowly. He opens his mouth to say something else, then shuts it again. Dale decides to wait patiently. Saul finally says, "Um, I think I know what's wrong with me, but I think you'll be mad, and I don't know how to tell you."

Dale feels uneasy but insists that he wants to hear.

Saul lowers his eyes, playing with the joint nervously. "Well... I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant. Somehow. Yeah." 

Dale bursts out laughing. "What? Man, you say such weird shit sometimes when you're stoned. And even when you're not, I guess, but it's more bizarre when you are."

Saul doesn't reply, and just starts smoking feverishly again, putting his bare feet up on the coffee table edge.

Dale feels a little awkward, but then remembers his own agenda. "Okay, whatever man. Listen, I'm going to go do laundry before the thing closes, but you have to stop smoking up this room. And I want to go to bed earlier rather than later."

"Dale, I don't know what to do. I've never been so depressed in my whole life," Saul says.

"Depressed? About what?"

"I told you already. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing now."

Dale squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, trying to sound less irritated than he is by now. "Okay, um, you think you're pregnant, _why_ again?"

"Because I decided to post my symptoms to Yahoo answers--"

"Did you go to the doctor today, by the way?"

"No, man! No, okay? Stop nagging me already. So I posted my symptoms to Yahoo answers, and look what I got in reply." Saul points at the laptop perched at the edge of the coffee table.

Dale rushes through the text out loud from the screen:  
"'I was wondering if any1 could help me, my stomach's all swollen, and i feel stuff moving around in it, and I'm almost always hungry and horny and congested. I also have a lot of mucus coming out of me into the toilet.' -- Eww, dude -- 'I think it's a parasite, what should I do?'"

Dale turns to Saul, raising an eyebrow. "So this is your version of going to the doctor?"

"Well read on," Saul urges, waving his hand slowly. 

Dale scrolls down to see the voted best answer: 'Hunny, u preggers.' He chuckles. "Uh, yeah, I think you forgot to mention one crucial fact in that whole whiny paragraph-- like, the fact that you're a GUY."

"What are you talking about? My avatar is a guy."

"Yeah, uh, your avatar is close enough to a friggin' girl, I'm sorry to tell you, so it'd be an honest mistake. Nobody looks at these things anyway."

"I would."

"Great, congratulations on your thoroughness."

"What girl puts a prominent eyebrow on her avatar? And anyway, all the others said pretty much the same thing."

"Yeah, they probably copied this first brilliant idea. I think you should get your head out of your ass and go to a doctor so he can fix your worms."

"But, no, Dale, I went to the drugstore and got a home pregnancy kit test thing. And it said I was pregnant."

"What? You actually went and bought this and..."

"Yeah, and peed on it and everything. The second line appeared, and that means I'm pregnant."

"Dude, Saul... You're so blazed I don't think you could see how many lines there are even if you wanted to."

Saul shakes his head, visibly annoyed. "No, I got high _after_ I saw the result. 'Cause I got so depressed that I needed like a megadose."

"You need a megadose of something alright, and it's not weed, you retard." Dale sits down and buries his face in his hands. Then he looks over at Saul and touches Saul's stomach for the first time in weeks. "Okay, I can't believe I'm wasting my time with this when I have a big day coming up tomorrow. If I go and buy another test and have you take it and it shows up normal, do you promise that you'll drop this and let me take you to the doctor tomorrow or the day after, at the latest?"

"Yeah, sure," Saul slurs, nodding importantly. "So you really think it was a fluke?"

"Um, yeah, I'll bet money on it."

"Thanks man. You always have a rational head on your shoulders."

Dale worries that the laundromat will close, so he might have to wash and dry in the morning before 8am, but at this point he has to help Saul regain his common sense. He might have parasites, but he's so sweet in most ways. Dale resolves to take him to the hospital the day after tomorrow when he doesn't have all this probation stuff going on-- drag Saul if he has to-- because the dude would probably die on his apartment floor before he agrees to go get medical attention.

Dale comes back with a different brand kit, leads Saul's unsteady frame into the bathroom, holds it for him to piss on, and Saul's so high he can't really aim, and pisses all over Dale's hand and around the toilet bowl as Dale tries to place the strip under the stream. They follow instructions and wait, until a plus sign appears.

"Fuck me. Fuck me." Dale repeats over and over, staring at the plus sign in disbelief. "I mean, you can't be pregnant... I told you it was a tumor... it's probably a tumor that's producing, like, pregnant hormones. I've heard of that happening, I think. Or maybe there's something about the penis. The piss flowing through a penis begins to look like pregnant piss, maybe."

"Um, yeah, that doesn't sound all that feasible," Saul says, shrugging.

"You have better ideas to explain this?" Dale is more freaked out now, without the benefit of mellowing pot.

Saul shrugs again.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. Um, it's very obvious that you need to get to a doctor asap, because... that's not normal, man. It's really not." Dale stares at Saul's stomach now, and has a sinking feeling. It does look obviously pregnant now that that's suddenly in the realm of his imagination.

"Yeah, okay... but I don't want to go to a US clinic."

"What? Where do you want to go?"

"Canada. They have free health care and they're not going to like stick me in jail for years for selling pot or whatever."

"Um, I don't know if Canada's quite the utopia you seem to envision, but you know what, okay. My parents live in Canada. We'll drive to their place. We'll take you to the doctor and they'll figure out what to do."

Saul nods in approval.

"Yeah, see? Just as long as I'm thinking sober, it's all okay," Dale says with a touch of real optimism on top of what is obvious terror about the situation.

***

Dale can't believe he's actually sneaking Saul into Canada in the middle of the night. He was so flabbergasted by the stupid plus sign that he completely forgot about his date with the probation officer the next day, and the fact that he's technically not even supposed to leave the county. He doesn't have the heart to tell Saul that he can't take him to Canada that very night, though. He might get into real trouble with the law, his job, everything, but something really weird is going on with Saul and, well, going to Canada is not the most outlandish thing he could have demanded. But as they keep driving down the freeway, Dale keeps thinking of new obstacles in their course.

They've been driving only an hour, and this is already the second time Saul requests that they stop at a gas station to go to the restroom. Dale's not even going to criticize, not even going to inquire. Saul tells him of his own accord after the second pit stop that there's been stuff seeping out of his ass for days now, and he doesn't want Dale's carseat to get messy.

"Seeping?"

"Well, it's not like it's dripping, it's really slow and sporadic, it's like a little spot on my boxers usually, but I'm paranoid that it's going to be enough to go through my boxers and pants and stuff eventually, if I sit too long."

Dale wants to believe that this is just a bizarre dream he'll wake up from at any moment, but in the meantime tries to be helpful. "What about those sanitary pads?"

"What, you mean like, for women?"

"Yeah. Just buy some and stick one on."

"You won't laugh?"

"Dude, I'm closer to crying. Just go and put it on."

Before Saul returns, Dale thinks of another problem. "Hey, dude--" Dale tries to elicit a response from Saul, but then notices his mouth is full of a fruit rollup that he bought along with the sanitary pants in the convenience store.

"Sorry, man," Saul says after sitting down and swallowing it down. "What?"

"You didn't happen to grab your passport, did you?"

"What, you need a passport to get into Canada?"

"Yeah, where've you been. Shit. Do you even have one?"

"No, I never went anywhere. My dad took me to Mexico when I was like, twelve, but I don't think I got a passport for that."

"Okay... it probably doesn't matter. Maybe you'll just lean down or something when we get there."

They keep driving, but the more Dale imagines how this will go down, the more he feels like he needs to U-turn and go back to town, and just take Saul to a friggin' neighboring hospital. Because they'll probably not let them through, and then he'll be fucked for skipping out during probation, and Saul might get in trouble with the law anyway, because...

"Hey, dude, you didn't take weed with you, did you?"

"What do you mean? I took a shitload. How should I know if I can get good stuff while I'm over there. What, you want some now?"

"No! Shit, dude, dump it. Dump it somewhere. They are not going to let you go through customs with a bunch of contraband weed. They're really assholes about it lately."

"Throw it out? But this is my best stuff."

"Jesus. Can you even take a moment out of your self-absorbed little hissy fit to realize that this whole going to Canada thing is not a joke? Like, I'm almost guaranteed to end up in jail or more probation for this. I'm not going through customs hiding you, _and_ a bunch of weed, _and_ my crap probation status."

"Okay, how about I just smoke it all on the way there? I mean, it's a shame to waste it." Saul starts to assemble an egregiously fat joint in his lap.

Dale makes an illegal U-turn the first chance he gets.

"Hey, where are we going?" Saul asks, frantically turning around to look behind him. "Yo, Dale? Hello?"

"I'm taking you back. Canada's not going to work. I'm taking you to the local hospital. They're not going to arrest you."

Saul makes a small noise of exasperation and presses himself back against the seat. "You're such a turd. You planned this all along."

"No, but smoke some more weed tonight, and I'm sure you'll get even more paranoid ideas."

"Oh shut up." Saul tries to channel his displeasure in any obnoxious physical outlet possible, extending his legs across the dashboard, blowing smoke right in Dale's face.

"I do this because I care about you, idiot," Dale mutters though clenched teeth.

"The hell you do. You haven't been fucking me in ages. Liar. Turd. Liar-turd."

"Doesn't mean I don't fucking care," Dale says, trying not to take his frustration out on the gas pedal.


	7. February 24, 2008 (12 am)

"Maybe we should come back some other time?" Saul offers after they've been sitting in the ER lobby for an hour.

Dale is leaning his head back, his eyes closed. "No way. We're probably getting called next."

"If you say so." Saul fidgets in his seat. "Man, I could use a smoke. I'm like getting wired from being here. People die here and stuff."

"Mm-hmm," Dale mutters. 

"Hey man, do you think they have vending machines?"

Dale doesn't answer.

"I'm gonna go look for a vending machine. You want anything?"

"No, dude, just sit and wait, okay? I don't want them calling us while you're wandering the halls."

"Fine, _Mother_."

"Yeah, takes one to know one," Dale says, filliping his finger across Saul's stomach.

Saul turns away and zips his winter coat up over his stomach protectively. He sighs and stares glassily at snotty kids playing with the filthy wire-and-bead toys in the waiting area.

It's past one am and they're both bleary-eyed and tired by the time they're admitted to be seen. 

"So, we have sharp pain in the stomach area?" the doctor asks hurriedly after reading the clipboard.

"Um, sort of," Dale fills in when he sees Saul isn't about to answer. 

Dale continues talking while Saul sits staring at the floor, out of a combination of embarrassment, lingering resentment, and a touch of worry that he's still not completely sober and that the doctor will pick up on that immediately. "Yes, it sounds crazy, and my friend here probably just has a really bad case of parasites, but now he thinks he's pregnant." Dale laughs nervously at what he's saying. "Which is ridiculous, I'm sure you'll agree, but I do think he needs urgent care, because his condition-- whatever it is-- has been getting worse and worse."

The doctor tells Dale to calm down and Saul to take off his shirt. He palpates Saul's stomach gently, then applies a stethoscope to the protruding belly. Saul wants to shrink back from the cold metal, but there's nowhere to escape to in the chair.

The doctor stands listening thoughtfully, then takes out the earpieces and folds his hands together. "Well, I hear two heartbeats. So it's no case of parasites." He laughs.

"Two? Like, his and... a baby's?" 

Saul still hasn't picked up his eyes toward Dale, but he can hear the grimace accompanying the last word.

"No, I mean, here's one..." the doctor applies it to Saul's chest, "and here's two more down here." The doctor is smiling at them, but Saul and Dale just look petrified.

"Twins!" he adds helpfully, but still receives no response.

"I know that you think your friend here is a man, but this happens sometimes. Women have androgynous appearances because of various problems. We need to check the fetuses, of course, because that could also spell problems for them."

"No, no..." Saul mumbles, turning frantic eyes to Dale.

"Um, Sir, Doctor... he's a guy. I can vouch for it..." Dale says it, trailing off with less conviction than he intended.

The doctor smiles pleasantly and shake his head. "You don't know your friend as well as you think you do. I'll get a specialist to take a look at he... your friend there."

As soon as the doctor leaves the room, Dale turns to Saul. "What the fuck, man? Why didn't you tell me you're a friggin' hermaphrodite or whatever? That's the kind of stuff you should tell people before you get into bed with them."

"I'm not one! I don't know what the hell he's talking about, I swear!"

"Yeah, you're probably too much of a clueless idiot to know something like that about yourself."

"Hey, you've seen my lower half better than I ever have. So that makes you at least as much of an idiot, doesn't it?"

"Okay, fine, whatever." Dale paces, fuming. 

Saul tries to concentrate on being annoyed at Dale and not think about the two heartbeats lurking inside him.

***

"Oh my God," Saul mumbles and covers his face with his hands when the gynecological specialist pushes him back on the table with authority, annoyed that he wouldn't cooperate and stripping him of his pants and boxers herself. She pulls his heels into the stirrups on either side of her head. Saul hopes she didn't notice the embarrassing pad stuck to his boxers.

"Hmm..." she makes a perplexed sound, and Saul uncovers his eyes for a moment. "And you say you're a woman?"

"No! Hell no!... um, Ma'am. I'm one hundred percent guy, I kept telling all of them," Saul cries in anguish, attempting to take his feet back out of the stirrups but her manicured hands dig their nails into his ankles.

"Please stay put for a little bit."

Saul feels his face flush red as she continues examining him, face so close to his crotch that he can only see her hairbun over his belly. Even the hookers he used with Red probably didn't spend so much time hovering near his cock.

"You're experiencing a pregnancy, so can I ask, ahem, do you happen to know what sort of sexual intercourse resulted in it?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was him going up my ass," Saul points at Dale, relieved to see her turn away momentarily.

"That gentleman over there?" the gynecologist asks, and Saul nods. 

Dale flushes red a bit, but tries to look unperturbed, hands firmly placed in pockets. "Well, we don't know that for sure, do we."

"So this pregnancy was the result of anal intercourse?" the gynecologist verifies again, still running a cold metal tool of some sort back and forth across Saul's perineum as if expecting to find a hidden trace of vagina.

"Yes... it's not like I have a twat, right?" Saul says, his voice jumping when she begins using the cold tool to move his testicles back and forth.

"No... you don't seem to..." The woman is clearly perplexed and snaps on rubber gloves. "This might hurt a bit, so relax as much as you can." Saul just catches a glimpse of her slather a small packet of lube on her finger before thrusting it in him. 

"Oh fuck," he groans, legs trying to jerk out of the stirrups.

"Would you help me hold him down, sir?" the gynecologist appeals toward Dale, and Saul is gratified he finally regained the male pronoun.

Dale dutifully holds Saul's legs, looking at the ceiling or the tools or the wall but never at Saul's squirming body, or the gynecologist trying to uncover the cause of this freak pregnancy by feeling all around inside Saul.

"Jaysus, Lady, you're really hurting me," Saul whimpers. She retracts her finger and nods her head in thought before promising to be right back and rushing off into the hallway, not even bothering to shut the door all the way in her hurry. Dale closes it. 

Saul takes his feet out of the stirrups as soon as she's gone, and sits up, crossing his legs for good measure. "They're so mean to me! I really fucking hate this place."

"Saul..." Dale says. "Are you sure you're not a hermaphrodite or something? I mean... how... how the hell are there...? You know..."

"I don't know. I don't know, alright?" Saul buries his face in his hands. "God, why is this happening? I'm sick of it, I just wanna go home and sleep and forget this ever happened... I really wish it was tapeworm."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Dale mutters under his breath.

"Dale... please don't leave me alone here. Whatever you do. Please, please, please-"

Dale extricates himself out of Saul's grabbing hands. "I'm not abandoning you, man. But what if they say you need to be here for like, days? You want me to quit work?"

"Yes...?"

Dale can't refuse, and only shrugs. He relents and lets Saul grab his wrist. "It'll be fine. I'm sure they can abort them somehow, right? And then everything will go back to normal and--"

Saul squeezes Dale's hand painfully when the door opens and the gynecologist leads in three more doctors.

***

Dale and Saul traipse up the steps to Saul's apartment. The sun is already out by the time they get out of the hospital. 

There were more and more doctors who assembled around Saul, prodding him, pressing stethoscopes to his stomach. Someone finally ordered an ultrasound, finding two little girls floating around God knows where inside Saul's abdominal cavity. Dale excused himself and went off somewhere, coming back with a slight scent of vomit hanging about him. Saul panicked a lot at Dale's temporary absence-- but couldn't tear his eyes off of the screen, blinking rapidly but holding back tears as the doctors pointed out heads, arms and feet in the staticy grey and black shapes. The doctors took cheek swabs from both of them, did amniocentesis on the two fetuses, and sampled Saul to death-- drew about five vials of blood through a vein, took a urine sample, and collected ejaculate in a cup. They made him strip and stand en face and in profile for pictures, which they assured him would preserve his anonymity via a block across the eyes. All in all, it felt not much better than the jail treatment Saul feared so much. At least they weren't reporting him anywhere, and for that he tried to be as grateful as one could be while being medically violated on so many levels. 

Saul only broke down into silent tears when they began insisting that he stay at the hospital, wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve furiously. Dale managed to talk them into letting them both go home on condition that they would answer their phone and come back for follow-up in a timely fashion.

Dale and Saul make it up the stairs and open the door. The rays of the sun streaming in through the window make it easier to see the stagnant smoke still hanging in the air. Saul throws open the window for a minute, waving his arms around. Dale shivers as he changes his clothes, yawning furiously and rubbing his eyes.

"Oh crap, you have that meeting today!" Saul suddenly remembers.

"Yeah, it's going to suck big time."

"Aww, you pulled an all-nighter just because of this shit..."

Dale yawns again. "Forget it, man. It's fine. At least we got out of there before 9, and I can actually show up."

"Oh geez, I should have sent you home to sleep. But I'd have died if I had to go through all that alone. I'm really sorry man!"

"Okay, quit feeling bad. I think it was a bad night for both of us."

While Dale brushes his teeth and shaves, Saul scurries around the kitchen.

"Dude, I don't have time," Dale protests when Saul presents him with an Eggo waffle he just toasted.

"Just open your mouth." Saul sticks the waffle in and Dale bites down on it, even as he's putting on his jacket. "Good luck. Knock her dead, haha. Thanks so much for sticking it out with me through all of that." Saul's eyes flee to the side shyly before he suddenly pecks Dale on the cheek.

Dale has a weird skeptical expression on his face, but then pulls Saul in by his ass, squeezing their bodies together. He says something with the waffle still in his mouth, and Saul wonders if it was a muffled 'Thank you.' Dale waves good-bye, even gives a salute, and disappears out the door. 'Thank you'? The hopeful part of Saul definitely heard 'love you' but then there's also the paranoid thought that it might've been a 'screw you'. He settles for hearing it as 'thank you.'

Saul slathers peanut butter and jelly on the waffle left in the other toaster slot, and flops down on the couch to eat it, turning on the TV. Next thing Saul knows he jerks awake from his cell going off, and he's scrambling to find it somewhere in the room. He never even bothered to check it since yesterday. Thirty two missed calls, six messages, and this particular phone call all inquiring where the hell he was all of last night. Saul explains that he had a medical emergency, lying back down on the couch, rubbing his stomach obsessively. He must have dozed off right in the middle of eating because he espies his half-eaten waffle breakfast lying on the floor, sticky side up at least. He picks it up, intending to throw it out, but ends up eating it as he listens through his messages. He licks his fingers and runs them across his stomach again. His cock twitches to life prompted by God knows what-- maybe just the fact that his hand is stroking something. It's early, no one will drop by before noon to get weed, so Saul flips his phone closed and reaches into his boxers to begin a languid jerk-off session. Just as he really begins to enjoy it and tilt his head back into the couch's armrest, he feels one of the girls kick. He stops and lets go as if his privacy has been violated. His cock stays erect against his belly, rolling slightly, smearing precum across the taut skin. He waits a few moments and resumes before his excitement has really ebbed, but he feels self-conscious when he comes and tries to keep as quiet as he can, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes. The babies still kick several times and Saul somehow feels ashamed. It doesn't matter, he assures himself. Dale said they were going to get an abortion anyway, so it can hardly matter what he does between now and then. Saul strokes his belly, smearing the cum that landed on it all around with perverse absent-mindedness. There's a long kick-- one of them seems to stretch her legs out for a while, then brings them back.

"Want me to do it again?" he says into the living room, but also imagines his voice radiating inside him. He smiles, then realizes it's kind of sad to be talking to future abortees. It does feel awful, thinking about having doctors go in and cut them out of him. As nasty and annoying as the pregnancy has been, Saul feels fairly sure that they're Dale's, and part of him is beginning to feel cautiously interested in seeing what joint children of theirs would be like. But Dale was probably right when he said they're sure to be deformed or whatnot... better get the abortion and forget it ever happened.


	8. February 28th, 2008

Dale knows twiddling his thumbs makes him look nervous, but he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. They're seated across a middle-aged Dr. Schlesinger in a wood paneled ob/gyn office-- much nicer than the sterile rooms in the hospital, but it's not exactly a pleasant situation to be going through.

They haven't even started and Dale already feels exhausted and irritated with Saul-- he spent forty frantic minutes that morning just trying to get Saul to wake up, take a shower, and get dressed into something decent. Saul kept burying his face in the pillow until Dale dragged him off the bed by his legs. Dale really didn't want them looking like white trash if they were going to request an abortion, so he actually had to pull open the shower curtain and shampoo Saul's hair for him in spite of protests that it wasn't necessary and that shampooing too often was bad for you, followed by complaints that his hair looked 'weird' now. Which was true, perhaps, because Saul looked different when his hair was silky smooth and not quite as stuck to his head-- it almost looked like a decent hairstyle, instead of a ten dollar Supercuts job left to overgrow for more than two years. 

Shaving was where Saul drew the line. He hadn't touched a razor since returning from the hospital, and insisted that he was never going to shave again after all that hermaphroditism drama. Dale didn't have the heart to tell Saul that his three-day beard looked more like a patchy five o'clock shadow. It was also hard to find a pair of actual jeans among Saul's clothes, and the ones they did find couldn't zip up all the way over his stomach, so Dale just made him pull a longish sweatshirt over it.

"You know, you look nice in jeans. You should wear them more often once, you know, we get your belly taken care of," Dale said as they walked down the stairs.

"Really?" Saul says, wiggling his hips. "I don't like it. They're tough and dig into places. And my balls feel kind of trapped..."

"Okay, Saul, fine, I just want you to look halfway decent for this meeting."

"What's with you? Why're you treating it like a job interview or something?"

"Because if we want to request an abortion, we have to look like we know what we're doing with our lives."

They don't quite pull off that illusion. Saul sits slumped in the chair, knees out far to the sides. _What are you doing?_ Dale's thoughts yell. _Quit pretending you're ghetto._ But Saul has a weird way of dealing with the outside world sometimes. Dale tries not to guess at what the middle-aged doctor is thinking as he peers at them over his clipboard.

"Well, Mr. Silver, Mr. Denton, it's certainly nice to meet you. I have a lot to report to you..."

Saul is slumped back in his chair, surveying the diplomas on the office walls, compulsively chewing gum.

"Mr. Silver?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, there's good, or um, at least, interesting news. You are indeed genotypically male. You have an X and a Y chromosome, and no abnormalities that we could detect by FISH."

"Uh-huh. I know. I told you guys."

"Furthermore, your sperm is viable and we couldn't detect any problems. Motility was a bit low, but that's not uncommon. It can be caused by a myriad of factors, including, ahem, drug use."

There's a pause and Saul realizes he's expected to respond. "Okay..."

"Your circulating testosterone is well within normal range, but you also have high levels of hCG. That's the hormone that showed up on the home pregnancy test."

"Yeah, I know, I looked it up. Human chronic gonadotropin," Saul says, now furiously fiddling around with the laces from the hood on his sweatshirt. 

"Chorionic, yes. Your progesterone's through the roof too, which is normal for pregnancy, but I'm not so sure what effect it might have in a man. Those two hormones are probably being secreted by the placenta."

Saul sighs, chewing his lip. "So does that mean everything is more or less fine?"

"Well... I guess it depends on how you want to define that. I don't mean to alarm you, but there's really no precedent-- that is, no documented precedent for this. But you are ostensibly healthy, if that's what you're asking. Now, as for the fetuses... Well, they're both female, confirming the ultrasound, and you and Mr. Denton are the parents."

Dale flinches, but doesn't say anything. Saul is chewing gum furiously, fixated on the little legs of the desk.

"So, uh..." the doctor flips through pages of the report. "It's difficult to tell by ultrasound, we'd really need an autopsy for this, but the fetuses each have their own separate placentum-- so we know the twins are fraternal-- and... well there isn't any defined uterine structure, but nevertheless they've implanted... It's termed an ectopic pregnancy when it happens in a female--"

"So what do you do with these ectopic pregnancies in women?" Dale asks in as matter-of-fact a tone as he can muster.

"Well, uh... this type of pregnancy is usually terminated. But there have definitely been cases of being carried to term. Furthermore Mr. Silver's case is really a bit different because they've implanted on the lumenal-- the, uh, inner surface of the colon, and--"

"Well, but then that settles it, right?" Dale says.

Saul shoots Dale an indecipherable glance, then goes back to fiddling with the laces. The doctor looks expectantly from one to the other.

"So you're settled on...?" he finally ventures when neither man says anything.

"I don't know," Saul finally says, swinging one of his knees back and forth. "So are they okay-looking? They're not like, retarded or have three arms or something?"

Now the doctor seems uncomfortable. "We've run the triple test on the amniotic fluid, and I can tell you that they don't have Down, and they look great by ultrasound. No signs of fetal alcohol syndrome that we can see, so congratulations on that. Really, the fact that they're well-formed is remarkable, I hope you realize, especially for girls in an androgenic environment..."

"Yeah, okay, but you can get all of that out of him, right?" Dale tries to bring the conversation back on track.

The doctor licks his lips and adjusts his glasses back up his nose. "I... well, there is high risk of massive hemorrhage in cases like this, where they've implanted on the digestive tract... We'd probably go in through the dorsal side. I mean, it would be a major, very invasive procedure, and I'm not absolutely positive about whether we can ligate the colon back together, so you might end up requiring a colostomy..."

"What's a colostomy?" Saul asks, then shrinks back. "Oh wait, I think I know... with the bag, and... eww..." He leans over to Dale, eyes fixed on the floor. "Um, I don't really like the sound of that."

"Listen to him. I mean, you don't even know the alternative yet."

Saul's eyes travel dolefully back to the doctor's face.

"Are you seeking a recommendation from me?"

"Yes, that's exactly what we're waiting for, honestly," Dale says, tapping his fingers on the chair arm in such exaggerated impatience that it's clearly fear.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious to see how this turns out... I mean, medically speaking, your body is doing a miraculously good job. None of the people at the lab could understand the results. I could give you a printout of all the things we tested if you'd like... Anyway, you will be fully supported in either choice, and you can decide to terminate the pregnancy at any later point as well..."

"What, they allow late-term abortions?" Dale asks, annoyance seeping into his tone.

"No, Mr. Denton, but they do in life-threatening cases, and this pregnancy could be argued to be life-threatening by definition."

"Well, then I'll wait on it," Saul mumbles. "If you say it's going okay so far."

"Wait," Dale says. "He thought he had worms so he took a bunch of that Flagyl antibiotic. That's not good during a pregnancy, right? That must have permanent side-effects."

"Flagyl? Well, as far as I know, that one's actually approved for use during pregnancy..."

Dale sighs.

"But... you haven't been to the doctor and have no medical records on file. How did you end up taking Flagyl?"

Saul glares at Dale. "Oh, he's confused. I talked about getting a prescription. I didn't end up taking it, obviously." Saul throws another glance at Dale. "Anyway, I'm going ahead with the pregnancy if you say it's going okay."

"Excellent!" the doctor says, but quickly suppresses his palpable excitement. "Now, do you have your own insurance, or..."

"Yeah, I actually don't have anything..."

"That's quite all right, you're probably eligible for Medicaid. What is your monthly income?"

"Um..." Saul looks over at Dale in a slight panic. "I'm currently unemployed."

"Mr. Denton?"

"Uh, I flip burgers right now, so that's probably... about a thousand a month?" Dale's face sours as he says it.

"Oh, you most certainly qualify. That's great. Just fill out some paperwork and you'll be fully covered. You know, you two are probably the only couple who prefer to have a male ob/gyn, am I right?" The doctor laughs with a nervous edge, but Dale and Saul sit staring at him, stone-faced.

The doctor clears his throat. "Yes, so... right. Now we would obviously recommend for you to stay here, so you can be monitored..."

"What?!" Saul jumps to his feet. "I'm not staying in the hospital. You said there's nothing wrong with me."

"Okay, okay, sit down Mr. Silver. No one is going to force you to stay, but we all highly recommend it because this is such a... um, an unusual case and we don't know what to expect..."

"No thanks," Saul says, smiling and getting up to shake the doctor's hand. "Well, thank you for explaining it all, Dr. uh, Schlesinger. I'll see you later."

"Wait, gentlemen, you need to agree to regular checkups if you're going to opt for staying at home. Also, Mr. Silver, I hope you're aware that a twin pregnancy may become very physically dangerous in the later stages, and I have no idea what an ectopic pregnancy like yours might add to those risks... You appear to be currently only in month three going on four, so more than half of the pregnancy is still ahead of you."

"Well, I can come back and stay in the hospital if it becomes dangerous or whatever, right?"

"... Right."

Saul is trying to get out the door, Dale is reluctantly following him, glaring back at the doctor.

"I'm sorry, wait, Mr. Silver? Mr. Denton? Just one more thing before you run off... I'm, um, assuming that... well, that the conception happened as a result of... was this unprotected anal intercourse or something else?"

"Yeah, it was anal," Saul says, sighing, already in the doorway. Dale just wants to fall through the floor.

"I'm obliged to give you this pamphlet about safe sex and advise that you not engage in this activity without protection. Mr. Denton, you can choose to be tested for HIV, if you just ask the nurse outside..."

Dale's eyes widen. "Why me and not him?"

"Oh, Mr. Silver's samples have already been tested more extensively than yours."

"Well, if he's clear, then I'm clear," Dale announces, and realizes how awkward it sounds after he's said it.

"I see." The doctor seems just as uncomfortable. "Now, one final thing..."

Saul leans against the door, sighing.

"Mr. Silver, we cannot, ahem, _legally_ test for illicit substances in samples submitted for other purposes, but let me just mention that drug use has a very pronounced impact on any child you might be carrying."

"Which drugs?"

"Oh, almost every type. That includes, ahem, cannabis."

"... Okay."

"So, I'd recommend, you know, taking a multivitamin supplement, maybe a prenatal version. No drinking, no smoking, no drug use. For any medication, feel free to give me a call if you have any doubts, even for over the counter medicine..."

"Okay, thanks a lot."

"Well, see you back here soon. And please fill out some paperwork at the receptionist's to get coverage."

***

"What the hell was that all about?" Dale hisses at Saul as he fills out the long questionnaire. "Didn't we decide we're going for the abortion?"

Other women in the waiting area turn sharply towards them. Two men in the waiting area of an ob/gyn clinic is already strange enough, without whisperings about abortions.

"Hey, you said they were definitely going to be fucked up, and then he said they were fine."

" _No..._ he said he couldn't find anything wrong. I bet there's something wrong, and it's just more subtle than whatever the hell they're testing."

"No, I've got a good feeling about them. I'd feel it if there was something wrong."

"That's such BS. You didn't even 'feel' that they weren't a tapeworm until a few days ago, space cadet. Such utter _bullshit_."

"Hey! Do you mind, sir? There are children here," a woman scolds them when Dale hisses the last word loud enough to be heard across the waiting area.

"Sorry," Dale says to her, peeks over at Saul's questionnaire, then folds his arms, shaking his head, putting his ankle on his knee and shaking his foot in impatience.

***

"Seriously, what the FUCK, Saul?" Dale says a lot more loudly when they're locked in the car. "What. The. Fuck. What are we gonna do now? You seriously want to have it keep growing?"

Saul is looking straight ahead through the windshield. "You don't have to do anything for me. Move out or whatever, like you planned. I don't care. So stop freaking out over it."

"No, seriously, I don't understand what thought process is going through your mind. Do enlighten me."

"Jesus, you are such a douchebag," Saul groans, closing his eyes, which only angers Dale even more. "You're just scared."

"Yes. Yes, I am scared. I am fucking _terrified_ , because unlike you I look ahead at things and, you know, try to plan? And this can only end horribly."

"Hey, you heard what he said about the abortion thing. He said I'm going to have to, like, have my colon cut out and threaded out of my stomach into a friggin' bag or something."

"He said _maybe_. And what do you think's gonna happen if you carry them to full-term, huh? You think they're not going to have to do the same exact surgery? Only then these things will be like ten pounds each, or whatever babies weigh, and you're really going to die from blood loss or whatever." Dale's shouting, and Saul even sees spit fly a bit.

"Oh, I didn't think about that..." Saul mumbles, shrinking into his seat.

"Yeah, big surprise there. You didn't think period. It's the only way to make a dumbass decision like that."

"Okay, shut up, man. Just shut up. I felt bad. They're like, two little girls. What the fuck. It's not their fault. Like, when I was ten my mom came back from Hawaii to visit me. That was the only time I saw her. And you know what she said? That I was only born because my dad didn't let her go to the abortion clinic. Do you know how that feels, to be told that, as a kid?"

Dale raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "That's, uh, really heartbreaking and devastating and everything, but I don't really see what leads you from that to keeping this... pregnancy or whatever the fuck it is."

"Yeah... I just don't like it."

"Great. Why use logic, when you can just rely on non-sequiturs. Brilliant!" 

"Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck you. Just because I'm pregnant you get to like, abuse me now? That's like shooting dolphins in a submarine."

"... What? That doesn't even--"

"You don't have to be so mean about it."

"I wasn't going to be mean, until you went all scary fundie on me with the doctor."

"I'm not a fucking fundie!" Saul's voice is starting to shake. Dale has struck a nerve. "Hey, I'm totally pro-choice. And I choose to try to have them, okay? You don't have to participate if you can't take it."

"No, no, I kind of have to participate, don't I. Because even when they tell you you should stay in the hospital you friggin' refuse. Who's going to take care of you at home? It's only going to get worse, you realize, right?"

"Okay, what's the chance that the hospital will let me smoke weed? You want me to go for, like, five months or whatever without weed?"

"He said you shouldn't smoke it anyway! I don't get you-- if you're really so psyched to carry this fucking thing to term maybe you should think about not giving them birth defects left and right."

"That's a load of crap. My mom smoked all through her pregnancy."

"Yeah, that explains a _lot_ , actually."

"Fuck you. I looked it up online. There's no evidence of anything. Maybe I'll filter out the ash-- take it through a bong, if it makes you feel any better."

"Makes me feel better? You know what would really make me feel better? If your mom hadn't smoked weed and made her son grow a freak pseudouterus or whatever the fuck you have in there."

Saul is breathing fast through his nose, ribcage heaving. "Whatever."

"Yeah, that's right, whatever," Dale mutters under his breath and finally turns on the ignition, breathing deeply in and out to calm down.

Dale slams the brakes just as they get on the road when a car zooms out in front of them from another driveway. Dale's arm whips out across Saul's chest before he can even think.

"Sorry about that. It's that bastard's fault." Dale retracts his arm sheepishly. "I thought you forgot to put your seat-belt on."

"Yeah, that'd be good, wouldn't it. Then you wouldn't have to deal with me and my stupid decisions. Just have to replace the windshield and go through a car-wash and you're golden," Saul grumbles his hyperboles quietly.

Dale rolls his eyes and proceeds to drive to Saul's apartment. Before they even arrive he feels bad, but he can't bring himself to apologize. Fear and anger and, yes, definitely love too mix into a really nasty tight feeling in his chest and he can't say anything. He does love Saul, even after all the crap that's happened to them ever since they met. Maybe because of it, to some extent.

But Saul's so embarrassing. And infuriatingly oblivious to the fact that he's embarrassing. The doctor referred to them as a couple, and he's probably right. They are, by definition now, aren't they. They live together, eat together, and not only fucked together but fucked with undeniable results. And Dale's depressed when he thinks about that. Not like the doctor would say anything, but they are the pathetic epitome of white trash. 1K joint monthly income-- at least the income they can report, not using condoms, barely holding down a job, smoking up enough doobie to alarm medical personnel. He's angry at the doctor too-- convincing someone as ingenuous as Saul is easy, and they just want to satisfy their fucking morbid curiosity? Dale hates thinking about going back to see that doctor ever again, but now he guesses he'll have to unless he gets Saul to change his mind.

Saul gets out when Dale arrives at his apartment and slams the door without looking back. Dale watches him cross the street and go in to the building before driving off to the Mickey D's for his shift. 

***

Saul lies on his bed smoking a joint, staring at the ceiling and grimacing and coughing after particularly overzealous drags. It calms him down like nothing else. Saul just knows that good weed is something he needs, but doctors would never buy that.

He hears Dale come in through the door, back from work. He took the morning off to go see the doctor with Saul, but that meant he'd come home even later. Saul rarely closes the bedroom door, but he did today. He really doesn't want to talk to Dale, especially if it's going to be a continuation of that argument, requiring energy and thinking of counterpoints. He squeezes his eyes shut when Dale knocks on his bedroom door. There's a cautious opening sound. Saul hears Dale walk through and approach the bed. The bed dips. Saul's not pretending to be asleep, and takes another drag from his joint, but still refuses to open his eyes. He feels Dale lie down next to him, but doesn't scoot over in the slightest to make more room. He keeps waiting for verbal assault, or at least a snide remark, but it never comes. Dale's hand runs back and forth across the slight distention of Saul's stomach. 

Suddenly the buzzer goes off, and Saul swings himself up to his feet and walks out to the door. It's one of his easiest customers-- an exec who doesn't really know good weed from bad, and is always willing to overpay for crappy Snickelfritz or Strawberry Cough overstock. The guy waits patiently as Saul weighs out the buds, then the leaves in a separate bag.

"So what do you recommend for these?" the guy asks as he hands over the cash.

Saul knows advice will probably be lost on the guy, but goes ahead anyway. "You can smoke them separately-- 'cause they give you a different quality high, you know? Or toss them as a salad into one bowl. It's all pretty sweet."

"What about kief? You have any of that?"

"Listen, kief is really hard. It's like, really easy to fuck it up and burn up all the THC to waste before you end up inhaling it."

"Oh. Okay. What about for a chick? I just started dating her, and I need something that'll impress."

"Oh girls go apeshit for Pink Grapefruit. She wants a mellow high?"

"I guess..."

"Yeah, Pink Grapefruit is your friend. It's like a really nice, unparanoid high, but she won't get sleepy. You get good orgasm enhancement on that shit."

"Yeah, yeah, that's perfect, I'll take a quarter-- no, wait, let's say two quarters."

Three hundred fifty bucks, just like that, and the guy might be back before the month is even out.

"Thanks, man. You're so helpful when it comes to this stuff," the guy says, as Saul's leading him out to the door. "And hey, you look kind of different today..."

Saul freezes up, slouching into his sweatshirt. "Really?"

"Yeah, I think it's your hair. No, man, don't freak out, it looks good I meant. New conditioner?"

Saul laughs weakly but after closing the door pats his stomach under the sweatshirt. He'd have to think of a way to deal with it as it gets bigger. He goes back to bed to toke some more, the slight high he's sporting making him forget that Dale is in there. Saul startles a little when he sees him sitting on the bed. Saul rubs his nose arch and slumps back on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. It's amazing how competent he feels when he's selling weed, and how any feeling of competence evaporates when he's next to Dale.

The mattress makes a noise as Dale shifts again and Saul feels Dale stroking his stomach, still not saying a damn thing.

"How was work?" Saul finally relents, opening his eyes.

"It's work. What can you say." Dale answers, not meeting Saul's gaze. "It gave me time to think. You know, mull things over. There's only so much of your brain you can devote to assembling a sandwich."

"Yeah?" Saul asks without interest.

"Are you mad?" Dale finally turns to the head of the bed to look at Saul's face.

"No."

This catches Dale by surprise. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. I'm not mad. I expected you to look at things that way."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"No, don't get me wrong, I don't mean it badly. You're probably right. Like you said, you plan things. And this is like this completely bizarre twist in our lives, and I get that you don't want it. I get it. I'm not mad. Don't feel like you have to apologize or whatever. I mean, honestly, I'm probably making a stupid decision I'll regret. I say it's because I care, and like because I have some sort of ideology, but it's probably just like, laziness. I just want to put off having to do anything about it."

Dale is frowning. "Wait... no, man, I was talking shit to you. I _do_ want to say sorry. I'm at least as responsible for this as you are, and you're the one with like, life-threatening conditions..."

"Okay, but you don't have to stick around. Don't feel like you have to just because I opted out of hospital stay. I can call Red or even Bubbe. They'll help me out when I need it, don't worry about it."

"Dude, I am not leaving you like this."

"Dale, really, thanks. It's really nice to hear you say that. But I don't want you to be hanging out with me, feeling obligated. I chose it, you didn't have a say."

"Oh God." Dale slumps forward into Saul, burying his face in his chest, hugging his torso. "Why are you such a nice person? You make me feel like such an awful human being in comparison, _all the time_."

"Well, you always make me feel a dumb ditz, so we're about even." But Saul says it without much hurt, staring blankly at the ceiling. Suddenly he feels Dale shake ever so slightly against him. Saul's lying when he says he's not upset, of course, and you'd think Dale tearing up should gratify him on some level, but it's just uncomfortable and scary. Saul just pretends he doesn't notice, running fingers through Dale's hair. 

"... So do they move?" Dale asks picks up his head, and Saul looks away when he sees Dale's eyes reddened and nose sort of snotty. There's no disgust in his tone, but Dale is overacting his comfort with the whole situation. He's touching Saul almost compulsively. Saul's not about to call him on it. It's so much better than the reaction in the morning, and Saul wonders if it will last.

"Yeah, but very rarely so far."

"That's too bad. I wanted to see how it feels." But Dale keeps his hand at its post, sniffling. "So what... you're planning to raise them?"

"Hell no!" Saul laughs, and he can see that Dale is relieved. "I figure someone'll adopt them, right?"

"You think someone will want your ass-babies?" Dale smiles.

"Well, if they'll turn out healthy or whatever, then I think so. I mean, they'll be white, and that's always popular, right?"

"Heh, that's awful. But true."

"Yeah, and maybe like a gay couple will want them because of them coming from, you know..."

"Coming from another gay couple?" 

"Heh. Shit. I guess we kind of are."

"Yeah, I admit when the doctor referred to us as a couple today, it freaked me out. It was like the cherry on top of all that drama. I don't know why it sounds so weird, saying it."

"Well, being a couple means you're in love with each other or whatever..." Saul trails off.

There's an awkward silence and Dale leans down and kisses circles around Saul's navel. Saul's cock begins to respond, as if hoping to get in on the action going on above.

"Hey man, you know one almost surefire way to make them kick?" Saul says, glad to change the topic, even though arousal is embarrassingly evident through his voice. He madly wants to ask Dale to give him a blowjob. Dale's mouth is already _so close_. And Dale feels guilty, so he might agree-- just out of guilt. But Saul doesn't have it in him to ask.

Saul jerks himself off into a Kleenex while Dale holds his hand against Saul's belly. 

"Hey, they didn't move," Dale points out.

"Crap. Maybe they're a little stoned. I don't know. I should test if they always quiet down after I smoke."

"Dude. That's so wrong. They're gonna be developmentally retarded or something."

"Nah. You're their daddy-- they're totally going to be amazing and brilliant."

Dale snorts. "Uh-huh."

"Oh come on, don't give me that. You finished college and shit, right?"

"Well, if we want them adopted, they better come out looking more like you. Like, all sexy and cute."

"Pfft. Like you aren't. Besides, I'm going to look like real shit soon, probably." Saul's faint smile fades. "Seriously, you should move out like you planned to."

"Do you want me to?" Dale asks.

"No. Of course not." Saul sighs. "But what's the benefit to you to stay here anyway?"

"The benefit is that you're my best friend." Dale kisses him on the cheek. "And you've always helped me when I needed it." On the neck. "And you're carrying kids that are mine too." Near the ear. "And you're sexy." On the mouth. They keep kissing and jerk each other off for the first time in weeks. It's probably the closest Dale will ever come to saying he loves him, but Saul is fine with that. It's probably a lot less awkward and sappy this way. Saul takes ages to come the second time, but Dale makes a valiant effort that pays off after a quarter of an hour.

One of the babies kicks but Dale misses it yet again.


	9. March 11th, 2008

Red opens the door to his apartment. "Homes!"

"'Sup," Saul says to Red as he walks through the door.

Red unzips Saul's jacket for him. "Awww bitch. You got _nailed_. So where's the stud-daddy?"

"Hey," Dale mutters and slips into the apartment behind Saul, unable to avoid having Red slap him on the shoulder several times.

"Shit," Saul says, surveying the room. "I completely forgot to buy you a bong again."

"Whatchu talkin' about, playa? Like I'm going to expect you to buy me bongs when you've got buns in the oven."

"What, that like, exonerates me?" Saul smiles and awkwardly lowers himself down onto the couch.

"I have empty soda bottles and scissors if you want to make a gravity one," Red offers, but Saul shakes his head. He takes off his jacket revealing big armpit stains on his shirt. He claims feeling too hot is better than too cold, but Dale turned down their thermostat to 66F.

"So you guys kept this from me all this time? What kind of bestfriendship is that?"

"We didn't keep anything from you. You diagnosed Saul with tapeworm, remember?"

"Oh yeah. Crap." Red chuckles at the memory. "So yeah, bro, how're you holding up?"

"It's all good." Saul pulls up his shirt to show Red.

"Two girls you said on the phone, right?"

"Yep," Saul says, popping the 'p' and leaving his mouth open. He has really red, soft lips, and Dale wonders whether they were always like that or it's some freakish effect from the pregnancy. Or maybe the cold weather. Why is it that Dale only notices how pretty Saul is when there's someone else looking at him? And sitting between them on the couch? And pressing his ear down to Saul's belly?

"Oh my God, man, that is like so beautiful. You're like the future of human sexuality or something. You're like... ambidextrous, but for reproduction." 

"Really? You think so?" Saul asks. "Yeah, that sounds much nicer than treating it like a technical glitch."

Dale feels a little sheepish. It _is_ hard to imagine that doing something as complicated as growing fetuses without a uterus is a malfunction. The doctor was so enthralled too... is Dale really the only one who is kind of freaked out by it?

Red listens quietly for a while. "They're making kind of weird noises aren't they?"

"I think that's just like, my stomach," Saul says.

"Oh my god, are you hungry, amigo? I actually made you this really nutritious soup this morning. It's like all-natural ingredients and shit. Well, I used a broth stock, but the rest is from scratch. It's like a fighter-pilot recipe."

"Yeah, that'd be awesome!" Saul smiles.

Dale inwardly kicks himself for not even trying to cook for Saul. He didn't seem to be so incapacitated at first, but now that Dale watches him, Saul does look like it's getting harder for him to get around. He probably deserves to get dinner cooked for him.

"You want some too?" Red points with the ladle at Dale.

"How is it a fighter-pilot recipe exactly?" Dale asks instead of answering.

"Well, it's like what they teach them to make if they're stranded in enemy territory."

"What, like from twigs and beetles?"

Red purses his lips. "No, like things that grow in enemy territory in eastern European villages, for maximum vitamin content and whatever. So yeah, would you care to have some with us? Mr. Hilarious?"

Saul grimaces and shakes his head, shrugging at both of them, and Dale doesn't say anything else when he sees that. They sit down at Red's table and eat together.

"This is actually really good, man," Dale says. "No hard feelings, right? I do feel all vitamined up."

Saul is still picking out every piece of boiled onion he encounters and putting it on the rim of the bowl. Red and Dale both try to convince him to eat it all, finally resorting to spoonfeeding the onion to him as he grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut and shudders. "Ugh, I hate that stuff. It's like eating wet tissue paper. I need a smoke."

They roll a joint and sit on the floor and play taxi with it for a while, except Saul keeps losing from bursting out laughing. "You guys-- make such serious-- faces-- in-between-- I can't stand it!" he tries to say, interrupted by coughing, laughing, and burping up the root beer soda he helped himself to from Red's pantry. 

"You are such a hot mess, do you know that?" Red says, ruffling Saul's hair. "So now you can tell me, Dale, does he ever actually shower?"

"Heh. Sometimes, I guess," Dale says.

"And in bed? I bet he comes in like two seconds."

"Shut up," Saul says.

Red gets annoyed at Saul not playing the game and just smoking. "Quit hogging the joint, bitch. You've taken fifteen hits in a row or something."

"I thought you guys were too busy dissing me," Saul mutters, a weird combination of stoned and annoyed.

Dale is tempted to hug Saul, and suck face with him, but he can't in front of Red. Which is ridiculous shyness, given that he's the verified cause of Saul's huge bloat, and Red knows. But Dale doesn't come to Saul's defense.

Red continues. "The body is a temple, dude. Treat it with respect. You've got, like, little templettes in there now. What are you naming them, by the way?"

"I dunno. I thought like, maybe... Aretha and Marley?"

Red grins. "Ooh, Marley's badass for a girl."

"Wait, wait... dude..." Dale says, so disturbed that he wets the joint end to put it out. "We are not keeping them, so don't go naming them."

"Who's not keeping them?" Red asks, furrowing his brows.

"Oh, um, yeah, we're like going to put them up for adoption, of course," Saul says, nodding his head importantly, index finger tapping his bottom lip.

"Whaaat. I thought I was totally going to get to be the goddaddy or whatever."

"Well, you still can be." Saul strokes his belly, nestled against his ankles when he's sitting cross-legged.

"No, Saul, we're giving them away, and whoever takes them can give them their own godparents."

"Well, he can be like the... interim goddaddy, can't he?"

Dale rolls his eyes. He feels like he's had enough of being at Red's, but he resolves not to pressure Saul to leave. They linger on and on, smoking another five joints, Saul downing an entire bag of Goldfish crackers by the end of it. Red makes Saul sit with Nair spread from his navel to the pubes, arguing that a pregnant belly like that should be 'pristine' and all that, and asking for Dale's support. Dale realizes that he didn't really mind the treasure trail fuzz Saul had, but maybe that's just the apathy from the weed.

Before leaving, Saul stuffs a couple of full ziplocs in his duffel bag, and Dale watches with a measure of curiosity as he counts out a few thousand dollars to Red, all in twenties and tens. No matter how out of it Saul is when he's high, his mind always seems to snap into uncannily sharp focus when it comes to buying and selling weed. They start their trek back-- Dale was kind of pissed that Saul insisted on taking a walk to Red's apartment because the weather was 'getting so nice again', but then, thinking about it now, he gets the depressing idea that these might be the last few weeks that Saul is able to take a carefree stroll, ever. He's going to get headturningly big soon enough, and after the pregnancy... well, the doctor never explained just how bad the operation was going to be, and Dale secretly keeps fearing the worst. So he's suddenly happy to be taking a walk with Saul, whose winter jacket doesn't look too suspiciously huge yet, and whose walk is not too labored and waddly.

"... Aretha? ... Marley? Really?" Dale finally asks, smiling and shaking his head.

"What, you don't like it? They're like such legends. I mean, you can name one of them something else, but I feel like I deserve to name one."

"Yes, I can name one of them, or both of them, or none of them. Because we're not registering them with names on the birth certificate, right?"

"... Right." Saul says with a little bit more hesitation than Dale would like.

Dale stops in his tracks. "Saul. You are not keeping them. Or you can, if you want, but I'm only sticking with you through the pregnancy. You're _not_ ready to raise anybody."

"No, I know," Saul says. "It'll just be kind of creepy, having them be like _our_ kids, but living somewhere in some other state with other people."

"Why is that creepy?"

"I don't know, maybe it isn't. I'm kind of high right now, so maybe it isn't at all." Saul laughs, and Dale wants to put his arm around Saul's shoulder as they walk, but he settles for just putting his hands in his pockets and rubbing elbows occasionally. That's as much PDA as Dale dares to do out in the street.

Once they're in the apartment, Dale immediately starts taking Saul's clothes off.

"I love you, man," he mumbles, maybe out of a little desperation, because he feels that he can never be quite as caring or nice as Saul probably deserves.

"What did you say?" Saul asks, and Dale can't tell if he really heard or not, but doesn't repeat it.

"Is it okay, though? Can I put it in all the way?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," Saul says, flopping onto his back even and wincing because lately it's not comfortable with the weight in his stomach pressing down. He licks his index finger and puts it in himself, because Dale seems too cautious. "I want it." Because in Saul's world desire makes everything permissible and possible, apparently.

Dale doesn't entirely trust that, and goes shallow anyway, and it seems to get the job done just as well. Red's right-- Saul's dirty and loud and hyperorgasmic, but so sweet and innocent in a way. There's something almost Virgin Mary about him post-sex, lying with that perfect distended orb in his body and his gratified smile-- childish no matter how much stubble surrounds his lips.

"Thanks, man. That really hit the spot." Saul says, and Dale feels like he's done something useful this week.

 

March 31st, 2008

Saul can't sleep. The babies get more active at night when he's not lulling them to nap by moving around or smoking them into peace and quiet. So throughout the night at least one of them keeps stretching her feet out inside him. It hurts, and Saul was so fed up with it that evening that he even punched his stomach lightly several times, as if that would make them pipe down. 'How _old_ are you?' Dale said shaking his head as he got under the covers with Saul, and Saul felt a little bit embarrassed but perversely happy that Dale was looking out for them. Dale kept rubbing his stomach as if a gentle touch could soothe what's inside by proxy.

He loves Dale so much, but it feels like he can never quite say as much as he'd like-- Dale inevitably cuts him off at crucial points, maybe on purpose. So he recounts it to himself, silently. He loves that Dale tries so hard to maintain a legitimate job. He loves that Dale undresses down to boxers before going to bed now. He loves how dependable Dale is-- he's always much more on time for everything than Saul, and keeps track of all the non-weed related stuff like bills and doctor's appointments, and as much as Saul likes Red, Dale would never back out of plans at the last minute. Saul reaches back to feel Dale's hair-- God, if he could grow a fro like that, he'd totally get cornrows or maybe just grow it out into a crazy size. He loves the way Dale's soft body feels nestled against his, Dale's crotch flush against Saul's ass, Saul's backbone pressing into Dale's soft belly, Dale's arm wrapped around on top of his belly, and his other hand inside Saul's boxers, squeezing Saul's ass while he was still awake, now limp. Saul can't really move and he feels hot and suffocated, but he likes being held like this too much to try to shift-- Dale all around him, and even inside him in a way, if Saul counts the babies as part of Dale.

It's such an old bed that they're squeezed into-- Saul's Bubbe must have bought it for him when he was in sixth or seventh grade. The springs are fucked up and groan plaintively whenever either of them makes the slightest movement. Not that there's much room to move. The twin-sized mattress always seemed small for the two of them, but Saul's new girth makes it even more difficult for both of them to fit. Saul wonders if he'll just get too big to share a bed with Dale at some point. He's grown like crazy in the past week or two, and it's been hard adjusting. He's bad at estimating how far out front he extends and keeps snagging furniture he's sure is nowhere near him. When Dale's around to see him do that, he doesn't scold him but he does make him sit on the couch and put his feet up and generally act like an invalid when all Saul wants to do is act as normal as possible, as if everything is more or less fine.

 

April 1, 2008

"Dale! Dale! My nipples are leaking!" Saul greets him as soon as he walks through the door in the evening, pointing to two wet spots on his shirt.

Dale winces, then recollects himself. "Okay... okay, no worries. That's probably normal, right? Um... you can put like bandages over it, or.... band-aids? Don't they have special pads? Why don't I go the drugstore and get you those... and I guess you'd also need... maybe, like, a... what do you call them, training bras? For like preteens? To hold them in place..."

Dale trails off when Saul bursts out with suppressed laughter.

"April fools, bro. I totally, totally got you with that one-- it's just water."

Dale blinks. "Fuck. Yeah, that's real mature, dude."

Saul is still laughing hysterically, until Dale twists one of his nipples.

"Oww, shit." Saul's laughter is mingling with tears as he clutches at his chest.

"Yeah, I'd punch you in the balls if this wasn't in the way." Dale taps Saul's belly. "Dumbass."

"But you should have seen your face. 'Training bra'... Pffbt" Saul's laughter just renews itself.

"Yeah, it'd be a lot funnier if you weren't ballooning up by the day. Don't come crying to me if you really start leaking."

"Come on, stop sulking already," Saul says, pressing up against Dale helping him take his jacket off. "Let's fuck. We haven't fucked in forever."

"A couple of weeks is forever?"

"It's been more than that. I really want it tonight. I don't think I can lie on my back anymore, but kneeling and from behind should work..."

"Yeah well, too bad. Even from behind, I can see the way your sides stick out. It'll be like fucking a farm animal."

Dale realizes he's gone too far when Saul shrinks back.

"I think I look good," he says without much conviction and navigates his way around the messy living room to the couch, gingerly lowering himself down.

"Hey man, I was just kidding. You do look good."

Saul doesn't answer and pretends to be engrossed by what's on television, emphatically pulling his t-shirt down again after it rides up.

"Come on, dude. Don't take it personally. You really have blown up a lot, you gotta admit. I mean, you're still sexy. It's like impossible to look at you and not think about sex now..."

Saul's not replying and pretending to watch TV. Dale sits down next to him and throws his arm around him, kissing his neck.

"Come on, let's fuck. Quit watching that shit."

"I don't really feel like it."

"What are you talking about. You're hard already."

"Yeah, the thing is I get hard just from them like squirming around inside me, so it's not like a special occasion. I can jack off-- I don't need you for that."

"Come on, I was just pissed. You're still hot."

"Whatever. I don't think I'm attracted to you anymore lately anyway."

Dale moves back. The words are almost physically painful. He replies after a long pause of collecting a steady voice. "Yeah? Why's that?"

"I don't know. You're almost always sober. And like, on edge."

"And that's what's turning you off? Yeah, well, I gotta stay sober until probation's over, you know? Hey, at least I lost a little weight."

"Yeah, great. Congratulations."

"What, you don't like that?"

"I dunno. Whatever."

"Hey, listen, I'm going to smoke it up a ton after probation's over, so it'll probably all go back to the way it was." Dale realizes he sounds really desperate, but he can't help it. "Come on, you're giving me such a hard time ever since I came home. I'm just tired from work-- don't be so harsh. You think it's easy, watching you smoke all that weed and not do any myself? And I'm so nervous that the secondhand will show up on the test and then I'll really have to go do time in county."

Saul still doesn't say anything, but Dale sees his face softening, the jaw relaxing. Saul's eyes are still glued to the television as Dale kisses him all over his face, neck and shoulders. The one-sided makeout session gets interrupted by the door buzzer. Dale latches on, sucking a hickey on Saul's neck before Saul can hoist himself up out of the cushion and buzz the guy in.

Sadly, there was no way Saul could stop selling-- the two of them might have been able to get by on Dale's paycheck if they really scrimped and saved but Dale flipped out when he learned the nursing home cost more than $3K a month. They already sold off most of Saul's audiovisual equipment, but that's really all that was of value in the apartment. There's the random telescope still by the window. Dale laughed about it, asking Saul which of his neighbors he wanted to spy on, or if it was for security purposes to see clients coming from far off? "I bought it to watch Hale-Bopp, man!" Saul said, looking kind of hurt at Dale's suggestions. He didn't want to sell it off because he claimed that he still wanted to see Halley's comet pass in 2062. Dale decided not to question whether they'd still be around-- and still interested or capable of looking for comets. He does usually underestimate the breadth of Saul's interests-- he might watch crappy reruns or jack off to porn when he's stoned, but he also seems to have actually read all those books on his shelves. Granted, most of them are random nonfiction shit about architecture and gardening, but it's more than Dale can say he's read.

The desk was Dale's idea, and he even bought it with his own money for Saul. For now it seemed to be working, and the clients weren't too weirded out by Saul selling them chronic across a desk. Saul had been wary of the desk plan, but warmed up to it and took to gushing about how much more organized he was now that he had all the weed in drawers. Dale was just proud that he could contribute something over and above half of the rent.

Dale was also glad that Saul agreed that it wasn't a good idea to have clients know about the situation-- a reasonable enough notion, but knowing Saul's loopy logic and penchant for sharing too much information, Dale did not take anything for granted. They wanted to keep it hidden for slightly different reasons-- Saul was mostly worried about people drawing some connection between the product and his condition. When Dale intimated that there really may have been some causative factor at play, Saul was so insulted and argued so vehemently against this that Dale quickly learned never to openly question the Sacred Weed. "If it's from the grass, then it'd have to be feminizing pesticides that some moron put on top or something, not the grass itself" was the most that Saul would concede. No, what concerned Dale more than the product's rep was a distinct sense of dread. Saul needed to be an able-bodied man to sell drugs safely, because it was just a bad situation when so much chronic and money was kept in the apartment. Saul assured him it was fine, but Dale switched to a shift that began at an ungodly early hour, just so that he could come home and be there for most of the evening transactions, albeit sleepy and often in a foul mood, like today. He had considered quitting, but that crappy job was needed as a front if Saul was going to be on Medicaid. It was a tangled, fatiguing web to keep weaving to various authorities, but Saul seemed to get used to everything quickly, and they weren't under intense scrutiny for now.

Dale wonders if Saul would quit even if his Bubbe's care wasn't sucking him dry. He always looks so happy and in his element while selling. Dale gets pleasure out of watching Saul's practiced hands weigh the chronic out, or demonstrate bud quality, or even just go through the stashes he bought from Red to de-seed them with practiced, easy motions.

Dale cooks spaghetti for dinner and they eat in silence. Dale can't decide if Saul is pissed or just tired. He's not too tired to pick out every non-zucchini piece of vegetable mixed in with the pasta. Dale doesn't even comment and just watches Saul chew.

People keep coming in until past midnight, and Dale feels like he's going to collapse if he doesn't get some sleep before 4am, so he bids Saul good night and heads off to bed, counting on waking up when Saul joins him and maybe even doing a quickie. He can't tell if Saul is mad at him or not, and he wants to get on his good side by giving him a handjob or something at least.

Dale must have been dead tired, because the next thing he hears is not Saul clambering into bed, but the horrible sound of the 4am alarm already, Saul's warm body next to him, grumbling something in response to the sound but not really awake, and it's torture to get dressed and drive off in the dark instead of laze around and keep spooning with Saul under the covers.


	10. April 25, 2008

Saul doesn't know whether to give in to the buzz and close his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of Dale's hands rubbing lotion into the skin of his belly. He opts to fight and keep them open, to keep taking in the fact that it's Dale taking care of him, and he ends up smiling wider and wider until it almost hurts, but he can't help it. It's so nice to have Dale care about him, and notice that his stretched skin was itching, and ask the pharmacist what to do to minimize stretch marks.

"I'm sorry, man. I think we might have already missed the boat on the stretchmarks a little. The pharmacist said that it's good to massage the skin every day and then it's less likely to tear inside, because that's what the stretchmarks are? Or something like that. Maybe he didn't know what he was talking about."

Saul sighs happily, trying to pay attention to what Dale's going on about. They're both buzzed, having celebrated the end of Dale's probation by smoking up three humongous, high-quality joints. Dale is gentle and mellow, and his hands feel so good on Saul's body. When he's done and Dale's hands abandon Saul's skin, Saul can't help but make a little whining noise.

"Can you give me a backrub, man? It's been killing me lately."

Saul turns as best as he can onto his side towards the back of the couch, and moans perhaps a little too loudly when Dale pulls his shirt up to his armpits and proceeds to knead his back. Dale squeezes and presses in a non-professional way, but Saul keeps moaning into the couch cushion his face is pressed into. Maybe it's the high, but every touch is like bliss. Dale's fingertips travel down until he's at the last vertebrae, and then gives Saul a couple of light smacks on the ass.

"Okay, dude. I should probably get going. Get our laundry done and get groceries and stuff." Dale rolls Saul onto his back and stuffs pillows under his shoulders to get him into a semi-upright position. He covers him with a blanket and hands him the TV remote. "Don't sell while I'm gone, okay? Just pretend you're not home. I'll be back in a couple of hours. You just relax, watch TV, sleep, whatever. You want anything from the kitchen? Here, I'm gonna put these Frosted Miniwheats here, if you get hungry."

"Dale... I can walk around, I'm not like, paraplegic." But Saul appreciates it, and wraps himself in the blanket, tossing a few cereal pieces into his mouth.

"Okay. Call me if something happens, obviously."

Saul laughs. "Come on, you're just paranoid now, man. I'm not smoking with you anymore if you're gonna be like this. Go do what you gotta do already."

It's during the second rerun of _Saved by the Bell_ , when Saul tries to fix a sanitary pad wedgie, that he suddenly remembers something and dials Dale frantically, apologizing profusely for forgetting to throw out the used maxipad stuck to his last pair of boxers before throwing them in the hamper.

"Yeah, dude, it's okay. I noticed it and threw it out."

Saul tries to imagine that scene. He'd have thought Dale would have been traumatized to just see it, let alone touch it and dispose of it in a public place.

"I love you, man. I really, really love you," Saul gushes, not caring if it's going to be reciprocated or not for once.

Dale's laugh over the phone sounds choppy. "Where did that come from? Anyway... any requests from the grocery store?"

Initially, Saul doesn't think he wants anything, but then manages to rattle off a list of items, some getting outright vetoed by Dale as too much of a nutritional sink.

"... some marinara sauce maybe? and canned peaches in like syrup-- do they still sell that? ... and Oreos, and strawberries."

"Dude, no Oreos for you. The doctor said you're like low on every friggin' mineral or whatever. He's going to get on my case again about junk food."

"Fine, Fig Newtons then."

"That's still junk food, you realize."

"No, man. It's figs. Figs come from the earth. And do they sell steak?"

"Uh... frozen probably. I wouldn't know how to cook it."

"Maybe we'll invite Red over and he can make it for us?"

Saul can't help grinning when he flips his phone closed. For the first time since Bubbe went noticeably senile he feels as though there's someone looking out for him in every sphere of his life. Dale would probably wipe his ass for him if he asked, and that's a selfishly warm and fuzzy feeling. He'd do anything for Dale too, of course. He'd train for a fucking marathon in the snow if it was somehow necessary. Will it stay like this once he's not pregnant? He doesn't want to dwell on that now.

A _227_ episode is on when Dale calls.

"Uh... hey, dude, do you mind if I'm a little late? I got this call from Angie, and she wants to meet up with me..."

Saul mutes the TV. "Well, she can come here if she wants..."

"Uh, yeah, I think she'll freak out if she sees you."

"Oh. Right." Saul feels himself going rigid without being able to control it.

"Besides, I think she wants to tell me something in private, you know what I mean? I think I might stay with her until five or so..."

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. Sure. Just come home whenever."

Saul stares at the TV, not noticing that he never switched the sound back on until a few minutes later. Angie was Dale's girlfriend. He has a right to see her, certainly. In fact, he probably wants to start building the relationship back up again if she broke up with her classmate or whatever. Saul's pregnancy is going to end in the foreseeable future, after all, and Dale shouldn't wait until then to play the field. Saul would rather be a good friend than some clingy lingerer whom Dale completely disavows at some point, right?

Anyway, nothing's even happened yet. It's ridiculous to think about all this now. Much less cry about it. Saul sniffs deeply to retract suppressed tears. "Fucking hormones," he says out loud, and makes a concerted effort to watch the TV.

By the time it's eight o'clock, Dale still hasn't returned. Saul has managed to sell $400 worth of weed across the desk, because he figures Dale's moratorium on selling weed by himself is moot as of 5pm. He's also gotten hungry enough that he ate the random things that were in the fridge, which mostly consisted of condiments like pickles, ketchup, and butter.

When Dale finally returns, Saul sits flipping through a Best Buy catalog, trying to think about the electronics sale being advertised and not where the hell Dale has gone off to.

"Shit, Saul. Shit. I'm so sorry. She was like so distraught and I just felt like I couldn't leave her, and oh God. Are you really mad?"

"No..." Saul shakes his head, resolved not to cling, not to nag, because he really wants to stay best friends with Dale no matter what.

"Oh shit, dude, have you eaten?"

"Yeah, I finished the cereal. It's okay, man, don't freak out."

"Shit, shit. I think I ended up thawing the steak in the car trunk. We better invite Red tomorrow."

"Dale. It's fine. Thanks for getting the stuff I asked for."

Dale starts unpacking the grocery bag. "Here. Fig Newtons for you."

"That's dinner?" Shit. Saul hears irritation come through in his tone.

"No, no. Just in case you're like, desperately starving. I'm gonna make a big omelet, because that seems like the only way I can sneak vegetables into your diet."

Saul says nothing, figuring that maybe it is hunger that's making him feel so miserable right now, and it's not worth articulating this feeling. He walks over to Dale toiling away over a frying pan and hugs him. He has to turn sideways so his stomach isn't so in the way, and suddenly this feels like a liability, and he is incredibly anxious.

Dale seems a bit antsy too, but doesn't say anything and just smiles at Saul, grabbing his chin gently and running a thumb along Saul's eyebrow for a moment before going back to cracking eggs.

"You know, it was kind of funny..." Dale finally says. "Angie got dumped by that guy, which is why she was so upset. So I think she's trying to rebound. I mean, why else would she turn to me, right? Her loser ex-boyfriend."

Saul just stares at Dale, making a supreme effort to not furrow his brows. "You know, when you call yourself a loser, it makes me cringe inside."

"Are you sure that's not just them wriggling?" Dale runs a finger up and down Saul's belly and laughs lamely.

"If you were really a loser..." Saul pauses, sighing through his nose, but then goes ahead anyway. "If you were a loser, I'd have aborted them."

Dale turns a little red and pretends to be very engrossed with cutting up celery and peppers.

Saul turns toward the counter too. "And you can hang out with her as much as you want, but I don't like when you come back hating yourself each time."

"No, I'm not going to see her again. She wanted to get back together, and I ended up telling her I was with someone else. Didn't tell her it was with the guy she stabbed with a fork. Didn't even tell her it was with a guy period. Chickened out." Dale says it all with a wistful, nervous laugh.

Suddenly the torrent of tears comes. Saul tries to bury his face in his hands because he doesn't want Dale seeing this, and Dale most definitely sees it and looks freaked out.

"Dude..."

"I'm just high. Really high. Sorry." It's a blatant lie. Saul was so upset he didn't even roll any joints the whole afternoon. He's preternaturally sober this evening. It takes all his strength not to sob. "Hormones. I'm just hungry. Whatever."

He really doesn't know why he's crying now. It's tears of relief, if anything. He wasn't used to so much pent up tension. Putting on a persona for work is one thing, putting on a persona for Dale is quite a different matter, and he's just relieved he won't have to grin and bear his way through Dale having a relationship with Angie.

Dale is so surprised that he stands petrified for quite a while before finally wrapping an arm around Saul's shoulder and leading him back to the couch.

"Saul. Saul, jaysus..."

They're at a loss for words, obviously, and Dale just pulls Saul's pants off. Saul can't even see it happen over his distended stomach, and he gives out an embarrassingly whiny, needy sound of surprise when he feels Dale's lips on his cock. Dale sucks, then releases it and kisses his stomach to take a break.

"Thanks, Dale."

"I'm not done, dude." Dale's laugh is warm against Saul's skin. 

"No, I mean, just everything. You're still sticking around, even now, when I'm like huge and disgusting."

"Dude... we're friends aren't we? And you're still hot, in a way. I mean, I was never into pregger porn or anything before this, but I can kind of see the appeal now."

"Seriously? That's so nice of you to say." Saul smiles, tearing up. "Thanks, man."

"I'm glad I'm living with you. And I'm glad you're a guy, okay? I like you, cock and all. And I'm even kind of excited about your... thing... pregnancy... whatever..." Dale kisses a spot between the groin and navel again. "I'm just scared of what's gonna happen to you when the time comes, but I'm totally with you, okay? Fuck Angie."

"Well, don't give her up just because of me. If you still like her or whatev-" Saul's voice and thought process both hitch when Dale resumes sucking.


	11. May 20, 2008

Saul gets woken up by loud noises out in the living room, but doesn't open his eyes in hopes that he can just drift off to sleep again. The whole night was one baby toss and turn after another, and even though he's been going to bed before one and getting out of bed at noon, Saul is always exhausted. The noises get closer and Saul would try to turn away toward the wall, but it's too much of a maneuver nowadays.

"Saul?" It's Dale from the entrance to the bedroom. Saul has half a mind to not say anything and pretend to be asleep, but he makes a noise to acknowledge hearing him.

"Saul, come on, get up dude. It's past 11."

Saul squints in the bright daylight only to see Dale and Red jump into his line of vision.

"Haaaaappy birthday to you..."

Saul laughs and groans and covers his head under the blanket. The two keep singing, and grope his ass through the covers.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Saul tries to brush away their hands.

"I took off today. You didn't even tell me-- I had to find out from Red."

Red's hand grabs his head and rubs it. "Come out from under there, already, geezer. Happy thirtieth!"

"Shit, don't remind me. Thirty feels like I should be doing something important."

"You kind of are, this year. You're incubating," Red says.

Saul finally emerges from under the covers.

Red pats his cheek. "Geez, hombre, you look like shit."

"Hey, I don't come barging in to your house, waking you up, commenting on how you look."

"I know. I'm just a better friend than you are, that's all."

"Holy crap." Saul blinks in disbelief when he notices the bed Red and Dale apparently dragged in. "Dale, did you buy a new bed?"

"Well, not bought. But this was what I had in storage from my apartment, because I thought I'd be moving out, and then I realized 'why the fuck are we sleeping so cramped?' Here, dude..."

Dale scoops Saul up in his arms with visible tension. "Jesusfuckyou'reheavy," he pants out.

"How much does he weigh now?" Red asks, even as he rushes to spot Dale as he struggles to transfer Saul to the other bed.

Saul grasps Dale's neck, partly from fear of being dropped, partly because he loves Dale so damn much. Dale doesn't have the stamina to walk around the bed with Saul in his arms and just dumps him on the bed in the wrong orientation, feet at the pillow.

"You're like-- what did they say last week? 205?" Dale pants, rubbing his lower back as he unbends and turns to Red. "He gained like forty pounds since the first doctor's visit, it's sick. I think I just threw my back out."

Red nods knowingly. "I think I could probably handle 205. But, yeah, I've been training."

"Yeah, except picking up a guy is not the same as lifting a dumbbell or whathaveyou."

"Don't pick me up if you're going to bitch about it," Saul says, rolling back and forth across the mattress, extending his arms. "God, this is so much more room."

"Yeah, mine's full-sized. I got it so I could invite girls over, heh. Anyway it's much better than a twin."

Red sits down on the old bed. "We'd take you to the casino or something to celebrate, bro, but you look kind of raped."

"I love you too, Red. But seriously, thanks for coming over." Saul swings his legs off the side and slowly pulls himself into a sitting position.

"You okay, dude?" Dale asks, offering to pull him to his feet but Saul waves him away.

"Yeah, just gonna go to the bathroom." Saul winces as he gets up on his feet again. By evening his feet get sore. In the morning they're sort of numb, so there's no real happy medium. Just standing upright requires a painful bend in his spine.

"So what do you want us to do with your old bed?" Dale asks.

Saul freezes. "Um... What do you mean?"

"Well, should we throw it out? Or do you want to like, keep it somewhere here?"

Saul's mind races. If they throw out the old bed, does that mean that Dale isn't planning to move out in the near future? Full-size mattress isn't a queen, but it does kind of make them an officially-sleeping-together couple, doesn't it? Saul's tendencies are to keep everything 'just in case', and his apartment is full of things he will probably never use again. His instinct is to keep the narrow bed for random sentimental pull it has on his heart, but for once he's eager to go against instinct.

"Get it outta here. What the hell's the point?" Saul laughs and toddles off toward the bathroom. He always sits down now, tucking to take a piss, because he can't really aim standing up anymore. Then he just sits and feels some of the mucus that built up over the night drip out of him slowly. It feels much better than sitting in any sort of chair-- his balls don't feel crushed, and he likes relaxing his ass. Dale doesn't know, but on weekdays when he's gone, Saul sometimes sits on the toilet all morning, reading for hours.

He closed the door, but he can still hear Red and Dale's hushed conversation in the other room.

"Is he okay? He looks like he's overdue."

"Yeah, well, it's twins. They did test him for that gestational diabetes stuff, because he's gaining weight so fast, but they said it seems okay. It's kind of freaky-- he's building up this uterus-like thing, so they think that's why he might be gaining fast."

"So he's due when?"

"I think they pegged it at end of July-ish, and the surgery is scheduled for a little before, I guess. They really weren't keen on letting him go home the last time because of all the weird stuff he has going on. But he goes completely nuts when they so much as suggest it, so I managed to talk our way out of it again."

Saul beams at the memory. Thank god for Dale and his convincing radio voice. Saul peers into the mirror and picks the crust out of his eyes and washes his face. He has to admit Red's right-- he does look kind of shitty. There are big dark puffy circles under his eyes. His kidneys are bailing or something. He washes his face with cold water and sprays on deodorant before going back to join them.

***

"I got you something too, bro," Red says when Saul re-enters the room.

"Oh sweet!" Saul exclaims as soon as he tears open the wrapping paper. "This is like one of those prenatal music speaker things, Dale. Look!"

"Yeah, I got you the Baby Mozart one. So you can just like, strap it on and play it to your kids. I think it even has an option where you can turn off the external sound? So you don't even have to listen to it yourself."

"No, I want to listen to it with them! I mean, Bubbe used to listen to classical all the time, and like now I really regret that I was being such a douche in high school, and never listened to it with her." Saul pulls it out of the plastic casing, and asks Dale if they have any batteries. They end up taking out the double-A's in the TV remote, and Saul velcros the speaker onto his bare belly. They all smoke listening to a bastardized arrangement of Mozart on glockenspiels and some sort of deep reverberating synthesizer.

Dale, who started out thinking the whole premise was the worst combination of New Age mysticism and yuppie ambition to raise precocious children, has actually begun to enjoy it after a few drags. It's not a bad soundtrack to get stoned to.

"Yeah, so I really like it!" Saul finally says when there's a pause, smiling. "What's it called?"

"The Turkish March...? I think?" Dale reads off the packaging.

"Yeah, I really like that it's like, fast and happy, you know?" Saul slurs, nodding his head.

"Okay, but you know what you should try, broham?" Red says. "Unstrap it, and put it against your back."

Saul follows instructions and turns it on again, the music sounding all muffled, acting as a back massage. Dale suppresses the urge to point out that he can give Saul all the backrubs he wants. He's less comfortable when Red suggests Saul put the little music player under his ass, and actually warns them that it might break, but Saul sits on it anyway, squirming and grinning like an idiot.

"Nice, right?" Red tries to adjust it for him. "It's should be vibrating right through your 'nads."

Saul nods, his eyelids drooping, and his mouth falls open as he starts breathing more deeply, lower half grinding against the couch. "Oh it's like totally fantastic."

Dale is not happy with the whole situation, from the fact that Red's hand is in Saul's crotch to the palpable excitement he's beginning to feel when he looks at Saul's glazed over bedroom eyes. "Okay, stop getting off to prenatal Mozart. That's not right."

"I'm just saying, dawg." Red shrugs his shoulders. "For when you get too pregnant to reach your own dick or whatever. Might come in really handy."

Saul laughs and pulls the speaker out from under him. "Thanks so much, Red!" He springs up and embraces Red's neck as best as he can with his belly in the way. Dale grimaces when he notices the hard-on tenting Saul's pants, but what he hates is that it makes him desperately want to undress Saul and spend a lazy afternoon snogging, smoking, and fooling around on their new bed, when Red is going to stick around for at least a few hours.

"I'm gonna use it every day!" Saul beams. "They're going to be so smart."

"Only if you use it as directed." Dale can't help the acerbic tone. "They can't hear as well through your crotch, I'm sure."

Saul frowns. "Hey I know, okay? I'm not like a sex addict."

Red bursts out laughing. "Sorry, homes, but you really are. Before you moved in with him," Red says as he turns to Dale. "He would like come over to my house for dinner and to pick up chronic and stuff, right? So he'd actually go and burp the worm in my bathroom sometimes."

"You bring that up? That was like, once," Saul protests.

Red rolls his eyes. "No-o, at least three times, and that's that I _know_ of, playa."

Dale still can't get over vague nausea at 'burp the worm.'

Saul pulls his shirt down over his stomach again. "Anyway, every time I get myself off, they get happy chemicals too. I read about it online. So it's not like it's bad for them. They're going to be super-smart and super-happy. Isn't that what the whole world wants to be?"

Red purses his lips. "But maybe you're like training them to crave 'happy chemicals' for the rest of their lives. They'll be prostitutes when they turn thirteen or something."

"Wait-- what?" Saul looks just confused enough to not feel insulted.

They try to simulate a casino in the living room, and it's actually a bit more fun because they can toke as they play. They eat the cake Red baked and drink 7-Up from champagne flutes that Dale digs up from one of Saul's cupboards-- an inheritance from his bubbe, in all likelihood.

"You guys should totally just have real alcohol!" Saul keeps insisting, but Dale can tell he's grateful.

After several more rounds of poker, Red announces that he's too high to count cards anymore, and Dale refrains from pointing out that he's been losing chips since the very beginning, because it's fun being together and Saul always feels so needlessly distressed and responsible for any clashes between him and Red.

***

Dale drives Red back to his house, because he has yet to buy a new car. When he comes back he finds Saul chewing gum in time with glockenspiel music, drumming his fingers against his stomach right above where the sound system is strapped on, staring off into space. Dale sits down next to him and Saul smiles and straddles him-- or at least tries to. It's clumsy, and Dale's thighs are barely long enough to accommodate Saul's huge belly, and Dale has to catch Saul's ass when he feels it threaten to start sliding off the precipice of his knees. He hugs Saul close, both sitting in zoned out silence, and Dale feels the reverberations of the music player in his own torso.

"Why do you even care about how smart they turn out?" he finally ventures, rubbing Saul's thighs.

"I dunno." Saul shrugs his shoulders, staring at Dale's chest.

"We're not keeping them, right?"

"No, man." Saul careens back for a moment to reach for an abandoned joint from the coffee table, then proceeds to concentrate on relighting it. Dale doesn't like how Saul won't make eye contact when discussing this.

"So can we switch if off to stealth mode or whatever Red mentioned? So that they can keep listening to it and we can be alone?" Dale tries to fiddle around with the player. "Because it's been a while since I've felt one-on-one with you, honestly."

Saul looks at him blankly.

"Because you're like, so fixated on the babies all the time," Dale tries to clarify, trailing off when he realizes how lame it sounds. It's hard to imagine he wouldn't be fixated on forty pounds' worth of stuff moving around inside him.

Saul just smiles and finds the switch. "There. Now they can't listen in on their daddies fucking around."

" _Daddies_?" Dale laughs at the word, but it makes him shiver a little. 

"I'm sorry-- I'm such a buzzkill about it all. It's like when you get high and all you wanna talk about is how high you feel, but nobody else cares, right?"

"No, bro... I care. I just, I dunno..." Dale does care. But he hates the feeling that he can only go so far in helping, only go so far in even understanding what the fuck's going on inside his friend. And of course the best way he can come up with to cope with not understanding is to listen even less, and sound even more like an inconsiderate douche. Not that he can say that in so many words to Saul. "No, tell me about them all you want." 

Was that really the nicest thing he could squeeze out? He strokes Saul's stomach hoping that that'll demonstrate that he's serious about what he just said, and leans over the swollen belly between them to kiss that easygoing, all-forgiving, soft-lipped smile.

"I just don't feel like I can help you all that much and it makes me feel like crap," Dale mutters when their mouths part ways.

"Wha-at. What are you talking about. You like do everything for me," Saul says. "Actually..." his eyes open wide and light up, "I like wanted to tell you about this stuff I've been reading. About how like, if I'm jacking off by myself it doesn't release as much oxy-toxin as when we're fucking together."

"Toxin?"

"No, no, it's like a good thing. So even they feel you being here with me."

Dale nods and tries to go along with Saul's logic, marveling at how psyched he gets when he can tie something he likes to a benefit to the babies.

"So like, you being with me, holding me, taking care of me-- it's all really, really healthy for them."

Dale has to fake a smile at first, but ends up agreeing. It is a nice sentiment, to think that their hedonism has some sort of productive point.

They head off to the bedroom, Dale pulls Saul's pants off, and they make out and Dale decides to go down on Saul because the doctor told them to avoid doing anything more intense, even though Saul is absolutely sure they're just being overly cautious and annoying.

Dale peels down Saul's boxers. "Dude... you should shower. You're getting so sweaty under your pants lately."

"Well, my cock's like oppressed all the time now, you know? It's not my fault. We should get an air conditioner."

"Okay, but it doesn't mean you can't shower. And it's not like we can stick an air conditioner under your ass anyway."

Not that Dale minds all that much once he gets going. He's gotten used to how Saul smells. It's all kind of tinged with the sickly-sweet smell of ganja-- the guy's been using for so many years that it's as if he sweats chronic. It's not exactly pleasant, but it's familiar and even kind of comforting by now. Dale sticks a finger in Saul's ass, against doctor's orders and as per repeated requests, reinforced by an appreciative sort of whimper. Saul's back passage is weird and mucusy now, but Dale isn't about to dwell on that. If anything, it's probably cleaner than it used to be, he reasons.

Saul's phone goes off in the other room.

"Oh shit--" Saul exhales. "Dale... Dale... Could you please..."

"Geez, just pretend you're not home, man," Dale says, taking a brief break, trying not to feel insulted that all his ministrations are about to take a backseat to some crap weed buyer's visit.

"No, bro... it's my Bubbe's ring. I need to get it."

Saul yelps a little when Dale's finger pops out of him, and Dale lumbers off to locate the phone. It's not ringing by the time he manages to fetch it back, and he leaves Saul to go wash his hand, guessing the conversation might take a while.

"Dale!" Saul's voice carries into the bathroom. "Holy shit, she's right here, outside the building. She just forgot how to use the doorbuzzer. Shit, shit, shit."

Dale watches Saul get up and try to dress quickly, hardon awkwardly bobbing up and down as he pulls his underwear back on.

"Shit, I thought she wouldn't remember it was my birthday, but she like drove all the way here and she's all upset that I haven't visited her in ages. Shit, I'm such a shitty grandson..."

Dale offers to go get her from downstairs and Saul nods frantically, arranging himself on the couch with a blanket to make his condition less conspicuous.

Saul's bubbe sits on the couch next to her grandson, cupping his face and alternating pruny-lipped kisses with declarations of what a _schmegege_ he is for forgetting to invite her over, and for not visiting her, and managing to get so sick that he needs a blanket when it's hot out, and still not getting his hair cut, and not finding a nice girl.

"Bubbe, I still really love you," he says in sheepish rebuttal. "It's been super-busy and super-confusing lately."

"Yeah, well damn straight it's super-busy. This week they're doing all sorts of newfangled renovations, and it's loud, and I don't like it, and next week they're driving us to the casino..."

"Here, Dale, could you please get like two hundred bucks from the drawer?" Saul says pointing over to the weed desk. "Here you go, Bubbe. Have fun."

"Fun. Fun, he says," Mrs. Belogus turns to Dale for sympathy, smacking the wad of cash in disdain. "Fun is when your grandson visits you and dotes on you. Doris' grandchildren all visited her this weekend, and I sit there all alone, playing cards with those other family-less old maids."

"Bubbe, I call you at least three times a week, remember? I just can't visit you so often now."

She continues to carp as they eat cake, the second time that day for the two of them, and Dale praises it to the skies even though it tastes like she completely forgot to add sugar, or something equally essential. She protests when Saul asks Dale to drive her back, but they both insist until she relents.

"Thanks, Dale," Saul mumbles as they resume positions. It's already getting dark outside.

"Hey no problem, man."

"She's getting kind of senile. She loves me, she just likes to nag and fix things up, you know?"

"No, no, I see that. I don't interfere with family shit."

Saul smiles wide, tearing up. "Thanks, man. You're kind of family too by now, right?"

"Umm..." Dale feels himself inadvertently pulling away. "Yeah, yeah, sort of, I guess. In a way."

He plunges down to restart the blowjob, because that's somehow less disconcerting than calling each other family, and he doesn't want to look and see whether Saul is doing that disappointed smile again that always kills him.

After Saul's done, they lie side by side, Dale jacking off and stroking Saul all over, nibbling on his nose, and lips, and Adam's apple.

"All right." Dale cleans himself up with a tissue and turns over on his stomach. "What do you wanna do now, man? It's your birthday."

"Um..." Saul purses his lips. "I've always really wanted to try getting a rimjob."

"A what?"

"... a rimjob," Saul repeats very, very quietly.

"Ugh, dude. Didn't we just fuck? I meant like, order out from some place. You're so friggin' one-track."

Saul's mouth twitches. "Well, then you should have like, specified when you asked. Fine, forget I said anything. Let's get Thai food. I feel like pad thai or something."

Dale gets up and calls the only Thai place in their vicinity that delivers and then flips his phone closed, walking back into the bedroom. He watches Saul, naked except for his shirt bunched up above his stomach, sweaty, still a hint of a sexual flush. He has huge stretchmarks, and dark circles under his eyes, and his ankles are kind of swollen too. He never seems to complain about any of it.

"Did you really want a rimjob?" Dale interrupts the silence, leaning on the doorframe.

"No, whatever, I was just joking."

"No you weren't."

"Okay, maybe I wasn't, but you don't have to give me crap about it all night."

"No, well..." Dale chews his lip. "Okay, here's the thing. I just think it's dangerous to put your mouth there. Like, I'm not grossed out by you in particular, I just don't like the idea in general."

"Thanks?"

"Well... what I'm saying is..." Dale pauses, not sure what it is that he's saying. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it. Just because it's you asking. But through Saran wrap or something."

Saul looks up at him, eyebrow cocked.

"Dude, what. You're gonna insist on skin-on-skin?"

"No," Saul says, a smile spreading out. "No, no way. I just want to try and see how it feels. I think I have clingwrap near the sink."

Saul arranges himself on the bed, ass up in the air, an addict to sensations and pleasures, shameless but in a trusting, sweet sort of way. So much so that Dale has to admit he admires that kind of candor. 

Dale feels bad that he needs to test out the Saran wrap's sturdiness before even using it-- feels bad that Saul turns to look at what's keeping him and sees him sticking his tongue into the plastic, trying his utmost to rip it.

He hurries to clingwrap Saul's entire ass and proceeds to push his tongue into the crack.

Saul moans and wiggles his body, spreading his thighs even further. Within a minute of Dale trying to guess what it is that his tongue is supposed to do there exactly, he feels the hole pulsate, and suddenly he sees something come out against the plastic.

"Fucking God!" he yelps, jerking away.

"Oh..." Saul pants out, turning his head slightly. "Sorry, don't worry-- it's not what you think. It's just the mucus. I'm so sorry..."

At first Dale doesn't feel like he can will himself to move back in there. It took so much effort to overcome his disgust in the first place, and what happened just now was too much of a shock. "Forget it man. I don't think I can..." but he thinks better of it and decides Saul's low-maintenance enough to deserve this small favor.

"Oh, that feels so good..." Saul mumbles into the sheets, and Dale sees his ass gape, stuff Dale thought only happened in the scarier brand of pornos, the stuff dripping down Saul's crack.

"Dude... I really can't. I'm bailing. It's really grossing me out. And I'm afraid I'm going to see a baby head pop out of you or something."

"Yeah, it's fine, no hard feelings," Saul says, rolling over. "It was good while it lasted. Thanks so much. Anyway, I feel bad-- I sort of lied to you. I had a hooker do it to me once, so I did know what it feels like."

"Ugh, man, a hooker?"

"Well, she used one of those dental dams or whatever, don't worry. And my ass wasn't all fucked up and oozing stuff, to your credit. Anyway, it was so good. It's like, if you could slowly shit out Mister Softees over and over and over again, then that's what it would feel like. I can totally do it to you if you want to see how good it feels..."

"No thanks, man. Really. And don't mention Mister Softee in that context ever again, please."

The pad thai arrives, but Dale only picks at it. Saul finishes the stuff in his styrofoam tray, still chewing, watching Dale with a frown. Finally he puts down his chopsticks.

"Hey bro... are you okay? Look, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have asked you."

"No, it's not your fault."

"I don't know what's wrong with me. Red's right. I feel like I could have sex all day. Well, and take breaks to smoke, but yeah, you get me. It's freakish."

"No, no, man, it's really healthy. Like, I just feel really inadequate-- I like I can't keep up with you."

"Yeah, no, I definitely don't want to gross you out. I'm just glad you're living with me and stuff. Let's just pretend it didn't happen."

"You mean like we did about that night with poppers? That got us far." Dale laughs. "You got knocked up. I spent another couple of months in denial. Yeah."

"Well, I just want you to like being here," Saul says, and swings his knees back and forth like a little kid. He stares off at the turned off TV and starts chewing his nails. Finally he turns back to Dale. "What?"

"Nothing." Dale crawls over the couch and kisses him, careful to avoid elbowing or kneeing Saul's protruding belly. "Listen, it's really childish of me."

Dale just grabs the Saran wrap off the coffee table and flips Saul over. Twenty minutes later, Dale's face is still buried in Saul's ass, Saul thrashing his head occasionally. They've ignored a doorbell ring and several calls to Saul's cell.

"What I really like... about this... is that I don't come right away..." Saul pants, although he seems to be jinxing it, because his hips are beginning to jerk forward. 

Dale's neck feels a little stiff and sore by now, because he turned Saul over to his side a while ago, so that he wouldn't have his swollen belly hanging down, and it's awkward doing it sideways, but it'd be a crime to pause now.

"Oh my god, Dale, I love you so much, man!" Saul blurts out, voice shaking, followed by several terse gasps and a long groan. Dale tongues him a few more moments, and then picks his head up.

"Where is it?"

"Somewhere..." Saul says, eyes opening and closing without synchrony. "Shit, I think I got the coffee table."

Dale cleans up the table and carpet as best as he can with a wet paper towel. Saul just lies on the couch, sweatpants around his ankles, clingwrap still stuck to his ass, until Dale cleans him up too, wiping all the sticky stuff that came out of him while Dale worked his hole.

"Oh my god, come here--" Saul gasps, pulling Dale in to kiss him. "Oh... Jesus... that felt so, so, so good. Do you-- do you want anything, man? I owe you, like for a lifetime."

"Come on, it wasn't that bad. You have a cute ass. So what if it leaks a little baby juice once in a while."

Saul begins a laugh that transforms in a cough. "Man, I really, really love you. You're like, the ultimate."

"Look, it's not a big deal. Sorry I made you feel bad about it in the first place. Your ass is the cutest part of you anyway."

Saul keeps laughing. "Shut up, man."

They lie on their bed smoking, heads pressed together, fascinated by the ceiling, and Dale's high almost lets him forget that they have a freak pregnancy inching forward, slowly but surely.


	12. June 27, 2008

There's a sense of unease building in Dale as he parallel parks his car. He called Saul when he got off from work to see if there was anything to pick up at the supermarket and got no answer. Saul must have been taking an evening nap or something and he probably shouldn't have tried again several times on the way, since it didn't go straight to voicemail and probably just kept waking Saul up with that obnoxious ringtone he assigned to Dale's number. 

Yes, taking a nap made sense. The guy is perpetually tired, and now he's stopped selling, because Dale told him it was too risky. Or probably not because of that, probably because it seems that he's been feeling like crap lately. They have a little bit saved up, but not enough to go for a whole month without selling, and the unspoken truth of it is, it's not clear how long it will be before Saul can go back to normal life. Dale's been handling the transactions when he gets home, and Saul often just lolls around in bed most of the day. So yes, he must be asleep. Dale resists the urge to try calling again now when he's heading up the stairs, moments away from the door. 

"Saul?" Dale comes into the apartment but it's completely dark. He goes into the bedroom quietly. "...Saul?" he whispers, but there's no answer, and the bed is empty, unmade as usual. 

He dials Saul's number and he has a sinking feeling when he hears the cell ringing in the living room. He tries to rationalize where Saul could have gone off to, by himself, without a car or phone, looking ten months pregnant like that. There's no comforting possible scenario, and Dale slumps down on the couch, mind beginning to race with various outlandish scenarios. Maybe he was taken to the hospital? Dale grabs Saul's phone, but before he can figure out how check if the last number dialed was 911, he suddenly hears Saul's sheepish voice.

"...Dale?" 

It's quiet, and Dale can't even locate it at first. He finally turns on the light in the bathroom to see Saul sitting in a bathtub full of water.

"Saul, what the--" Dale doesn't finish his sentence when he notices Saul's teeth chattering, his lips a dark purple hue, the water a dank grey-pink. "Holy shit, man. How long have you been here?"

"Um, I d-don't know." Saul laughs weakly. "It's kind-da funny. I mean, it was d-definitely still light outside when I got in, you know?"

"Why is the water pink?"

Saul's gaze is all askance at the tiles on the wall. "Yeah, I d-dunno man. I must have bled a little."

"Shit. Shit, man! Did you fall?"

"No I didn't _fall_."

"Then why have you been sitting there in the dark?"

"I didn't fall, okay? Ch-Chill out. I just couldn't get myself up on my feet."

Dale pulls out the drain plug to let the cold dirty water go down.

"Oh, Dale, I peed in this water like three times."

"Dude, that is not my top concern right now, okay?"

"Okay, I'm j-just telling you. So you know to wash your hands." Saul looks away. 

Dale sniffs and blinks back tears, kneeling down, grabbing Saul's hand. "Jesus, man, you're like, frozen. Don't worry. We'll take care of this. I'll warm you up." He turns on the hot water once the bathtub is drained and Saul smiles, though his jaw is not stopping. 

"D-Dale, could you please roll me a nice, fatty joint or something? I'm fucking dying."

"Yeah dude," Dale says under his breath but doesn't even get up, still holding his hand under the faucet as if he's afraid it'll turn cold again if he doesn't, still clasping Saul's frigid hand with his other. He sniffs back a new wave of tears. "Saul, why are you bleeding?"

"I don't know. It just happened, the water turned all pink."

"You fucking liar, you fell."

"No, I didn't, man! Drop it already."

"Are they moving?" Dale hasn't let go of Saul's hand and runs them both along Saul's belly.

"Yeah, they're totally fine, bro. Seriously, chill out already."

"How do you know both of them are okay? Can you tell them apart?"

"No," Saul says, lips already returning to a normal color. "But why would something happen to one and not the other?" He sinks down into the hot water as much as he can, the water covering his mouth and ears, so that it's fruitless to argue that last point with him.

"What the fuck is that?" Dale suddenly says, pointing to a huge bruise on Saul's elbow.

Saul looks without interest. "Oh that. Well, I kind of slipped on my elbow. That's all."

"I fuckin' knew it. You wouldn't have sat here for hours in cold water if you didn't fall."

"Hey, I could have gotten out. I just didn't want to like, jeopardize them. You know? I wouldn't have died or whatever, I'd have gotten out. I just decided to wait for you to come home."

"You're going to get pneumonia or something. Geez, Saul..." Dale embraces him right in the water. "I'm having like a heart attack from this."

"Oh come on, stop freaking out."

"I shouldn't leave you here alone. Why are you bleeding?"

"I don't know, okay? I don't have any pain or anything. I'm sure it's fine."

"Dude... I'm going to take you to the hospital. I'm scared. Let's get you washed up, cleaned up--"

"Fuck _no_! They might not let me go back home now. I think I'm okay as is."

Dale sighs and stares at Saul for a while. His belly's gotten so large he can't submerge it in the water even when the tub is full. 

Saul bends his knees and lowers his head entirely into the bath before popping back out, wiping water out of his scrunched up eyes, spitting it down his chin. "I love being here. I feel so much less heavy in the water, you know? Maybe I could just stay here all the time, like until it's time to have the operation..."

"Dude, let's go to the hospital..."

"No."

"They'll make you comfortable. Don't they have those sling systems and pulley things? I bet--"

"No!" Saul looks tortured by just discussing it. "You never listen to me."

"Saul, I can't. I'm scared. You're not really mobile anymore. I can't leave you alone."

"Well then--" Now it's Saul starting to cry. "Then quit your stupid job already. Be home all the time."

"Okay, first of all, we need a stupid job as a front, otherwise we don't get your fucking Medicaid. Secondly-- I'm like genuinely feeling kind of out my depth here, dude. I don't know what to do. And fuck, you don't know what to do either. Let's just go."

"You're turning me in. Figures. How about I just take my cell with me to the bathroom next time."

"Oh yeah, calling me at work will really help when you collapse or something."

"Why would I collapse?"

"Listen, I'll visit you every day, I swear. I'll fucking live there if you want. I just want you close to all the IVs and operating rooms and shit, so I don't have to worry that you're gonna die of like burst colon while an ambulance is stuck in traffic, okay?"

Saul doesn't answer.

"Come on, warm up, eat whatever you want, toke however much you want... and then I'll call them, okay?"

Saul looks sullen and is staring into the water. "I'm going to die without weed," he finally proclaims. "And it'll be your fault."

"Okay. I'll take that risk," Dale says, slightly irritated but taking very good care to keep his tone even when Saul's already traumatized. "I love you, okay?"

"Then take care of me yourself, don't dump me in some--"

Dale interrupts him with a kiss, and Saul tries to turn away from it, but there's very little room to move inside the tub, and he can't escape Dale's hand on his stomach either, so he sighs and gives in, kissing back.

"I want you to live through this, dude. I want you to come out of this shit the same healthy, sexy guy I moved in with." Dale says it but he doesn't believe it. He's had too many dreams about Saul ending up paraplegic at best. Would he stay with him? It'd be the right thing to do, but Dale is scared that he'll be too selfish. But maybe it's not as bad as it seems. Maybe he'll get a respectable job and take care of Saul and give him a room in his house. Maybe he'll build a normal life after all and get married and have kids, and his wife will be really nice to Saul and take care of him too, like change his colostomy bag, and they'll have dinner together and laugh at each other's jokes, and then Dale's kids will see Saul as an uncle figure, and Dale will just have to make sure Saul doesn't try to get them to do pot too early on-- maybe he and Saul will even quit smoking it by then-- and then maybe their daughters will come back to find their biological parents when they're sixteen or something, and they'll all have a good laugh at this freaky time period, in retrospect...

It's doable, Dale tells himself, and focuses on the present again, reassured that there may be a light at the end of the tunnel. Saul is running his finger against the edge of the bathtub. "I really need a joint..." he reminds Dale. Dale helps heave him to his feet, his shirt getting wet as Saul grabs at his shoulders and leans against him. Dale tries to towel him off a bit, but walks him to the bed before he's really dry, because it's obvious that Saul's distended stomach is killing his back when he's upright. Dale rolls him a mixture of Northern Lights and Afghan Kush, and takes one drag before handing it off to Saul.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Dale asks, feeling useless after fetching Saul apple juice warmed up in the microwave and waiting for any more requests.

"No... it's not like _pain_ pain. It's just tiring. I just want to take it off and hang it up somewhere for a while and just walk around without all that heavy stuff. I don't know. Yeah, it's kind of hard to breathe even, because they're like lodged up against my lungs. It hurts to cough, definitely. I have like, eternal wood, but it doesn't feel all that nice, it's just like, congested. And I feel like I need to pee all the time. And they get fucking rowdy whenever I try to get some sleep, kicking and shit." Saul pauses, and gives a weak little embarrassed laugh. "Yeah, it pretty much sucks by now."

"Dude. Let's just go and ask them to deliver them. So what if they're premature, they'll survive."

"No, I'm scared to go under the knife. I just want things to stay the same. I'm used to it, I'm not gonna complain anymore, I swear."

Dale sighs, looking over Saul's naked body lying on its side, torso heaving with labored breathing. He slides in next to him, hand slipping between Saul's thighs. "You want some? Or are you feeling too crappy?"

"Mm-hmm," Saul mutters into the bedspread.

Saul wasn't lying about eternal wood. He's erect against his belly even before Dale really starts doing anything. He kisses Saul's hipbone and rubs the treasure trail that's grown back in since Red last removed it. "Complain, man. Complain. I'm taking you to the hospital either way."

Saul's mellowed out from smoking already, and he smiles. "Fine. My back is fucking killing me. Taking a dump feels really weird. I get bored here in the house. I get anxious that you're going to die in a car accident or whatever, and I'll be completely fucked, alone. I miss having a glass of wine once in a while. But, like..." Saul's eyes are weed-glossy and his words are getting a little slurry. "Like, totally, um... what was I gonna say... yeah, oh, like I feel like they're torturing me, but it's also really worth it, you know what I mean? It's like such a miracle, and like I love you so much, man, but I can't make you stay with me, but the two of them are this one thing that can't be taken away, it's like we'll be Together Forever in a way--"

Saul's voice hitches.

"You get so sappy right before you're going to explode." Dale laughs, wiping his hand on a Kleenex.

"I don't know. I guess. I've been like really backed up lately. I even had a wet dream two nights ago or something. It was actually kind of cool to remember that feeling. Like being a teenager again, and not knowing what the fuck I'm doing. It's like all new and fresh and scary. But that's how you _live_ , man, you know? That's how you live." 

Dale tries to follow Saul's high meanderings, nodding along. "Yes, yes, it's really important to live. And that's why we're gonna take you to the hospital, right?" He figures he might as well plant suggestions while Saul's a little out of it.

Saul, however, is probably not even listening. "I want something to eat. Fucking starved in that bathtub. Do we have anything like, sweet and crunchy and also salty?"

Saul looks much happier and calmer, smoking a new joint already, and stuffing Cinnamon Toast Crunch and pretzels together into his mouth. His body's completely dry, but there's a damp halo forming radially on the pillow under his wet hair. Dale tries again.

"Please, man," Dale says, clasping and kissing and petting Saul's hand that's not occupied with toking. His fingers taste like cinnamon sugar. "Please don't make me force you to go to the hospital."

"You're forcing me not to force you?"

"...What?"

"I don't know, I'm kind of high." Saul's eyes are starting to flop closed. "Fine, let's go to the hospital. But I'm going to die there. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Thanks, man. Thanks." Dale grips Saul's hand into a fist, squeezing it, making determined motions with it to emphasize his points, because he's not sure if Saul's vaguely pissed or just incapable of looking and listening closely anymore. "I feel your pain, okay? I'm going to hang out there as much as humanly possible. Don't think I'm ditching you."

"Yeah, I'm not signing anything without you there," Saul says, sticking his tongue in and out, trying to get rid of cottonmouth.

Dale shakes his head, smiling, handing Saul the juicebox he hasn't finished yet. "I'm not a lawyer, you know."

"Yeah, well, close enough for me. Just don't abandon me. I want you to sleep there..."

Saul tries to sit up, but gives up on the idea after a few small straining attempts. Dale sees his pouted lips and leans down to meet them and they kiss, Saul's arms rigid with determination to keep Dale there. It's minutes long, and Dale's mind is already elsewhere... thinking about how he's going to arrange to spend nights at the hospital, thinking about whether to ask them to do the delivery as soon as they get there or wait, thinking about how this long makeout session is one last pathetic ploy to stall for time. But it's not pathetic. Saul really loves him. And the hospital is daunting, and Saul's right about maybe not coming out of there alive, and Dale shudders at the thought, and kisses him all the more intensely for it.

"Ambulance, or should I drive you?" Dale asks when he finally tears away.

"Wait, wait, let me smoke some more..."

"You're already baked. That Northern Lights shit is strong-- aren't you gonna feel kind of dumb dragging yourself in there higher than fuck?"

Saul sighs. "I guess." His whole face just sinks. "Um... ambulance might be cool. But it's a hassle. I'm not bleeding, so it's not like an emergency, right?"

"Can you make it down the stairs though? Because the elevator's busted again. Remember last time you had to go outside to go to the doctor?"

"Yeah, I can still make it down. If you help."

"Okay, but I can't carry you down, lardass."

"It's not lard, it's baby, jerk-off." Saul pushes himself up to a sitting position with some difficulty. "How about I shove you down the stairs and send you to the hospital instead of me?"

"Sounds like a plan," Dale shrugs. He leans in and whispers "Thanks, man" into Saul's ear before pulling his hair back and sucking a giant hickey on his neck, suddenly feeling like he needs to mark Saul, to claim him somehow, before sending him out into that cold, anonymous hospital world. "Dude. You have giant ears, did you know that?"

"What?"

"Your ears. They're huge."

"You're just obsessed ever since yours got shot off."

"No, your ears are really like, objectively huge. I can't believe I never noticed before." Dale pulls Saul's hair up into a ponytail, turning his head back and forth, examining them.

"Well, that's why I like my hair long," Saul says, brushing Dale's hands away and rearranging it back down.

"No, don't get me wrong, they're really cute."

Saul cocks an eyebrow, almost as if he's sobering up from trying to understand what Dale's getting at. "Dale, you're not even high, what the fuck are you talking about?" he finally says, vaguely annoyed. "You think you have to distract me with dumb shit just to get me to go downstairs? I'm fucking _going_. Jesus. I'm not a two-year-old."

Saul heaves himself to his feet and starts to dress.

Dale watches Saul pull on a shirt. It's much harder to hide a pregnancy in the summer months. Still, walking out with a winter coat in the summer is less suspicious than walking out with that pregnant belly busting out of Saul's t-shirt. 

Dale's nervous. He doesn't want to think about how this could be Saul's last time in his apartment. If he's distracting anyone with Saul's pretty ears, it's himself.

"Fuck," Saul rasps after several attempts to lean down and get pants around his ankles. He grabs his ribs as he coughs several times, wincing, before turning to Dale. "Can you get up and help me, at least? Before you dump me on someone else?"


	13. July 1, 2008

It's been 87 hours since he last had a joint. That's about all Saul can mull over, because every other thing seems connected to that fact, in one way or another, every thought eventually feeds back into that hollow feeling of want in his chest.

He keeps trying to crack his fingers, even though he's cracked them all to death already, and bitten his fingernails down so much they're painful, and he's muttered 'fuck' to no one in particular enough times that he's beginning to worry that it's some sort of Tourette's that's emerging only now.

He doesn't like himself sober like this, everything sharp and posterized, and he misses the haze. Withdrawal, Dale calls it, as if putting a name to it makes it any easier to bear, and he claims it will pass, but it's just been getting worse and worse. 

"You're gonna see, it'll be awesome, once the crap part of it is over." Dale assured him the previous night, trying to elicit some kissing back from Saul's mouth to no avail. "See, already, you don't taste like an ashtray anymore. And your thought process is going to be so clear, and your memory... you'll be an amazing person, in short."

"I don't wanna be amazing, I just wanna be high..." Saul said, aware that he sounds incredibly whiny, but he never has the energy to change his tone anymore. "Like, right now, at this moment, I feel like I'd cut off a foot to be high."

"Okay, marijuana's not even that addictive... what are you talking about?"

"It is to me," Saul muttered, folding arms over his chest. "I'm like getting fucking chills."

"Just ride it out, man. It's my fault, anyway. I should have planned to have you ease off of it. We should have started easing you off of it when we first found out."

"No-o, we should have just gotten our congressman or whatever to legalize it so I could just smoke a fucking joint here in peace!"

"Shush! Stop yelling shit."

"I'm not yelling. Your hearing is like supersonic or something."

"Okay listen, man. I'm still selling your stuff, so we can pay off the retirement home bill, and Red's hooked me up with more, but I just want you to know I'm not smoking it either. Because I want to go through it with you, dude, okay? So don't feel bad."

"Great. Now we can both be assholes to each other. Mutual assholery."

Dale smiled and attempted to joke that that sounded like a sex act Saul would be into, stroking his face, but Saul just couldn't bear it anymore and covered his head with the pillow to avoid saying anything else to Dale that he'd no doubt regret later. He never really apologized either, not even in the morning when Dale got up from the little cot bed the hospital provided him with and headed off to his legitimate job.

Saul would like to blame Dale for his predicament, but it's hard. Dale brought him to the hospital, sure, but that turned out to be good timing. Saul apparently got a hernia at some point and it was sometimes constricting blood flow through some of his organs, which was slowly leading to all sorts of other unpleasant-sounding fucked up shit that the doctor made a valiant effort to explain. Saul tried not to zone out, but he just kept watching Dale grimace out of the corner of his eye whenever the doctor mention 'inguinal canal' and 'spermatic cord.'

The bleeding was a very bad sign in third trimester, one of the doctors kept warning, but the babies didn't look compromised on the ultrasound. Saul wonders if the doctors' "if you had waited only a few more days" doomsday predictions are not just a load of crap-- they'd been keen on having him there since the beginning-- but he can't really blame Dale for listening to them this time. 

They did laprascopic surgery on him to fix the hernia, and that was probably necessary-- Saul believes them on that count, so he sat through it all patiently. But then they said that he's in bad shape, and there'd be minimal standing upright for him until delivery, because being male and being pregnant and doing anything physical is just asking for hernias, apparently. Dale got Saul a room without anyone else in there, but it's tiny and suffocating, and there isn't even a window, and Dale leaves him for most of the day to go to work and then to sell weed.

Now, when Saul's alone and bed-ridden, the boredom feels physical, downright painful. There is real pain, of course-- pain that was apparently masked by weed before. He really shouldn't be surprised, but part of him didn't even believe in how good a pain-reliever weed is, thought it was all agitprop to get it legalized. Saul believes it now, and wonders if he'd have even made it this far without the analgesic buoy of THC. Now the pain is naked and raw and distracts him from everything else instead of being a slight nagging background noise of a feeling that he used to have. The fluorescent lights make a really nasty sound and make everything look ugly, the caustic lemon smell of the hospital disinfectant makes Saul want to retch, hospital food tastes utterly revolting, even the food Dale brought for him from home is revolting, and Saul drenches his bedsheets in sweat every few hours, but he feels bad summoning the nurse that often. She's nice and always tries to bring him everything he asks for. Maybe he should try asking for weed, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut to try to block everything out. 

The nurse has to collect his morning piss in a cup, because they keep monitoring Saul for 'protein in the urine' or something like that, because his kidney function's not so great. Whenever she touches his cock to aim it he gets hard and can't go. The previous day he was in such a rush to piss before the nurse's hand could get him excited that she hadn't positioned the cup right yet, and he pissed on her by accident, right on her green scrubs, and she didn't bat an eye, fucking apologized to _him_ for not aiming it, for not being used to dealing with guys because she's mostly been in the prenatal ward. Part of Saul worries that Dale and the nurse will keep running into each other and hit it off, because she's definitely kind of pretty and so nice that it's freaky.

Saul tenses his upper body, squirming his shoulderblades across the sheets. He's soaked the bed with withdrawal sweat, but he won't bother her now. Maybe when he has to piss again, he'll ask her for a change. He can barely eat, barely sleep, and when he does doze off, really vivid dreams about rolling and smoking joints wake him up full of terrible craving. Last night he dreamt something more elaborate-- he was giving birth, out his ass, and it didn't hurt, it was even sort of pleasurable, and what came out was a giant joint, all wrapped in white like an elongated baby, and Saul was really happy and cradling it in his arms, and Dale was next to him, admonishing him that it was disgusting and he better not try to smoke something that came out of his ass. Saul woke up from that dream still grinning from ear and with what felt like a hard-on-- he hasn't seen his cock in weeks. The prospect of getting really, really high faded, but at least he was in the mood, for once, without THC. Saul even contemplated waking Dale up and asking to have sex, maybe just a quick handjob, and Saul could give him head at the same time, but it was the middle of the night, and he'd acted like a douche before they went to bed, so he made an effort to fall asleep again. By morning he wasn't in the mood for anything, and now he just wants to curl up and die already.

Saul reaches over to the little stand next to the bed to get his cellphone and calls Red, begging him to come over for a visit, almost crying.

"Shit, homes, you need to like, learn to transcend the body," Red says, audibly chewing something crunchy. "How are Marley and Aretha dealing, 'cause they must be at least as fucked up as you by now?"

"Yeah, they hate it, I'm pretty sure. They keep shifting and kicking. I want to kick someone too." Saul takes the pillow behind his head and squeezes it to his chest. "I want to just... like... jump out of this stupid gurney bed thing and go on like a spree."

"A spree? Like a shooting spree? Or like, shopping?"

"I don't know. Something like that. I don't really care. I just want to not be here, you know?"

"Bro, dude, don't get down like that. Treat it like a detox vacation. Do you never do detox?"

"No, bro." Saul sniffs into the phone receiver to make sure Red can hear his disdain.

"I detox from drugs like every year for a week or so, even the baby stuff like weed and E and Red Bull. It's good for the system, you know?"

"Fuck that," Saul mutters. "I don't think I've gone half a day without a joint since, like, high school."

"Yeah, and you're proud of that? Look where it's gotten you."

"Fuck you. Whatever."

"Look, you called asking for help, and I want to support you, dude. But you're being like a total, total dick right now, just so you know."

"Sorry." Saul's bottom lip protrudes, and he sighs through his nose, looking down at his hospital gown. "I'm just really, really sober right now."

"You're so nice to Dale, but like, don't think you can just tread on me. Why you call me when something goes wrong and not him?"

"Because you like, know so much." Saul sniffs. It's true though, he doesn't call Dale because he doesn't want to annoy him again. He doesn't want Dale being witness to how much of a drag he is right now. He's almost crying again. "Just tell me how to feel better, Red."

"Listen, Jessica is here, back from jail since yesterday..."

"Oh! Oh shit, that's awesome!" Saul manages a grin, temporarily distracted from his personal plight.

"Yeah, yeah, so like maybe I'll bang her for like-- half an hour, it'll probably take? And then we'll both come to visit you, is that alright?"

"Yeah, man, yeah, like... _enjoy_."

"Hey, you're a top-grade dude-- just hang in there. We'll bring you good stuff. Should I just leave the phone on, maybe? She gets loud, it's pretty cool, if you're bored."

"Yeah, sure. But I like can't even reach to jack off, and they told me I shouldn't orgasm since that can give me a hernia again, or something..."

"Areyoufuckingkiddingme? That's such fucking bullshit."

"I know, right?!" Saul laughs a little, even though the slight strain of laughter on his abdominals hurts now, without weed. "That's like a month they want me to go without."

"They are on some crazy shit, to be stipulating that kind of stuff. I'd be like, 'Yo, just shoot me right now, motherfuckers. Don't make me suffer.'"

"Red, I love you man," Saul whispers over the phone, sniffing back tears.

"So what, can _I_ have kids with you next?"

Saul closes his eyes, grinning ear to ear. "What about Jessica?"

"Well, they'll be little bastards. I mean, they'd turn out little bastards anyway, knowing us, but I guess they'll be little bastard-bastards."

Saul listens to Red and Jessica have sex, because, frankly, it's somewhat more entertaining than anything on the seven channels on his hospital room TV that he keeps flipping through. They come to visit him, and Saul gets very hopeful when he sees Red set down a big paper grocery bag at his ankles, because he's sure it's weed, but instead it's a roll of bubble wrap and an economy-size pack of Extra gum. Red gives Saul a noogie for looking so visibly disappointed and Jessica begins to explain, in between bubble gum chews, that this is the secret of getting over withdrawal-- to keep the mouth and hands busy. They watch TV with him a little bit, making fun of the daytime soaps, Saul furiously popping the bubble wrap, chewing gum, and waiting for it to start making him feel better. Red rubs Saul's stomach through the thin hospital gown, yanking his hand back when he feels a limb shift inside like a lump.

Saul sighs. "Yeah, I don't think the bubblewrap is gonna help them. They're probably pissed about this fucking weed like, moratorium until they come out."

"They _feel_ pissed." Red begins rubbing his stomach in circular motions again. "Hey, at least you can't hear them until they come out. They're going to be such loud bitches once they're all yelling and stuff."

"Hey!" Saul pushes Red's hand away. "They're gonna be perfect, okay? After all this effort I put into them."

"Being a bitch-- is underrated--" Jessica says, between chews of a three-stick wad of Extra. "It's male code for, like-- opinionated-- and strong, on the inside, you know?"

Red lowers himself down, pressing his cheek against Saul's stomach before speaking. "You hear that, you little pimps? Stop torturing Daddy. He's already miserable and um, opinionated."

Saul doesn't say anything, just closes his eyes sighing.

"You know... this _room_ man. It's draining you of energy... it's like the worst setup I've ever seen. The qi probably doesn't even want to hang out here, let alone flow." Red gets up and surveys the walls. "You need to put a mirror or something up in your Metal corner here, and maybe like a plant over there, because your Wood element is completely shot."

Saul follows Red blearily before closing his eyes again, brows furrowing in pain. "Whatever, Red. There's only one kind of plant that I want to see right now. I don't even care. I have no interest in like anything, and I hate that feeling."

"Well, you're gonna waste away lying around like that 24-7. Like in the body and in the mind. I'd go nuts. Are you allowed to get up?"

"I dunno," Saul mumbles, compulsively rubbing all ten fingertips back and forth on the bedspread. "I get out of bed when Dale comes, but that's just like to go and take a dump."

"Hey, would a threesome cheer you up, homes? Like an oral daisy chain or something? Jessica doesn't mind. She thinks you're hot, she's told me."

Jessica nods. "Yeah, I don't mind."

"Nah, Red, the nurse comes in unannounced sometimes."

"I can't believe this. You're gonna let those sex nazis really keep you from doing the shit you have to do?"

"No, man. I just don't want to traumatize her or whatever. Like, she's been so nice to me, I'd feel shitty having a threesome here on her watch. And I don't even feel like having sex that much, anyway."

"Oh, now I _am_ worried, bro. That doesn't sound like you at all."

"Well, this is me... This is my brain not on drugs." Saul leans back, rolling his eyes back and opening his mouth, playing out a histrionic death. "... Please, Red, would it have really killed you to sneak a little stuff in here?"

"What, you wanna smoke weed in the hospital room, but not have a threesome? How fucked up are you? I take that as an insult to my wife, bro."

"No, man-- what? Jessica, you're way hot."

"Thanks babe--" Jessica pops another gumstick into her mouth from Saul's stockpile, so it's getting harder for her to talk. She rubs Saul's belly through the gown. "God, Red,-- maybe you should get your tubes cut or something -- I don't ever want to end up this pregnant. -- Um, no offense," she says, smiling at Saul and brushing his hair back from his face.

***

Dale only gets to the hospital after ten in the evening.

"Sold $500 worth of weed tonight. If we keep that up we'll be set for the whole month this week. And then I can come here straight after work," Dale tells Saul, petting his hand, leaning his head against Saul's shoulder. Saul's grateful that Dale goes to all that trouble-- it's mostly because of Bubbe that they have to even worry about money so much. He squeezes Dale's hand. 

Dale squeezes back and kisses along Saul's eyebrow arch. "Everyone's asking about you, how you're doing. They're all telling me to pass along 'get well' messages from them."

"Really? Who?"

"Like, everyone. Seriously. They buy from me, but I think they really miss you." Dale laughs. "I mean, I don't think they were about to go visit you at hospital, but that's because they wouldn't want to be associated in any sort of public record. Anyway, not like I'd tell them where to go find you."

"Who came by today?" Saul misses his work. He feels like his own life is going on without him out there, outside of the hospital.

"Um..." Dale looks tired, but he also seems glad that Saul's not bitching about withdrawal. "There was Dreadlock Dude, what's-his-face, Antoine. He still keeps asking if we have any Manhattan Silver, and it's like, dude, that stuff only comes out here once a year, if even, and I told him as much. Anyway, he keeps hoping. And the exec, with the girlfriend... he's like engaged now, he mentioned. He bought a ton of Pink Grapefruit again. And the little guy... with the K-Mart vest... Gene, I think?"

"Oh, I think that's Gerald. Yeah, he's weird."

"I guess. He's nice though. He was like really worried about you."

"Aww." Saul smiles. It's forced because he feels like utter shit, but he's resolved not to repeat the previous evening when he sees so little of Dale anyway. "... Would you have been worried about me?"

Dale doesn't answer, then stands up and mutters "I _am_ fucking worried about you" just before kissing Saul. Saul kisses back this time, rubbing his nose against Dale's slightly, his hand wandering to Dale's waist, kneading his fingers into the little love handle that forms where Dale's pants dig in.

"I wanna blow you," Saul says when they come apart.

"Saul, not now."

"Do you think... do you think if you smoked a bunch of weed and then I swallowed your cum I could get a little high?"

"Um..." Dale's large brown eyes dart around. "I really don't think THC is sexually transmitted, man. Sorry." Saul sees the disappointment in Dale's face that he's back on his single-minded quest to score a high in the hospital setting.

"I still want your cum. Let's do it."

"They told me you haven't been eating all day," Dale protests, and Saul's not sure he understands the exact connection.

"Yeah, well, the food here just sucks."

"Why do 'suck' and 'blow' mean bad things anyway?" Dale says as Saul pulls him in towards his face and unzips his jeans. 

It's awkward-- Saul has to twist himself to get his face to the right level. "I don't know, but I don't think you should use that as a topic on your radio talkshow thing," he mutters right before wrapping his lips around Dale's cock.

They don't get to continue for long, because the nurse walks in and Dale very quickly tries to make it look as if nothing was going on.

"How are we doing tonight, Mr. Silver?"

"Oh, you know. Fine, I guess." he mumbles.

"The doctors are asking for another blood sample..."

Saul sighs quietly and extends his arm out.

"Is everything all right with him?" Dale asks as the nurse tightens the tourniquet on Saul's upper arm and waits for the veins to bulge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't really know. I hope so. He's been such a sweetheart to take care of."

Saul winces when she sticks the Vacutainer into his isopropyled skin and it immediately begins to fill with thick dark liquid. "Actually, speaking of that, could I get new sheets again, please? I'm sorry, I keep like bothering you with that..."

"No, no, that's what I'm here for, aren't I?" She turns to Dale. "He's sweating like crazy. I'm cold in these rooms, honestly, but he's just like a little furnace or something. I'll be right back with new linens."

The nurse leaves and Saul looks at Dale, trying to determine if she's his type.

"Dude, she's totally flirting with you," Dale says.

"With _me_?"

"Yeah. She's head over heels in love or something."

Saul laughs weakly, as much as his stomach will allow him without pain. "You're paranoid, man. It's her job."

"Whatever. It's for the best. Maybe she won't fuck up if she's like, partial to you." Dale looks around, a tension in his jaw.

"Dale." Saul waits until Dale finally meets gazes. "Don't be so derejected. What am I gonna do? Like, elope with her?"

Dale laughs very quietly and shrugs, waving his hand as if to dismiss everything that came before. Saul can't help but feel happy that Dale isn't looking for a new girlfriend. He's even a little happy that Dale's so paranoid, because he wouldn't be, not if he didn't love him...

Saul stretches his arms out to Dale. "Come on, get me off this crappy gurney, so she can change the sheets."

Saul leans into Dale, arms wrapped around his shoulders, but when the door clicks open and the nurse comes, Dale actually squeezes him closer-- as close as possible without putting stifling pressure on Saul's stomach, and actually leans across the gap between their faces and begins sucking face. For the nurse's benefit? Saul is amused, but also turned on, so that he feels his cock come up against his belly, even though it's so uncomfortable standing. He shuffles off to the small adjoining restroom, and Dale follows him and helps him take off his underwear and lower himself down on the seat.

"It's actually easier for me with the gown. The pants were beginning to be a bitch to put on and take off," Saul says.

Dale shakes his head smiling before closing the door.

Saul hears the nurse talk to Dale. "The doctors don't recommend that he, you know... it might even set off labor in some cases."

"I don't think we're too concerned with him delivering them by accident. It's not like they're going to come out on their own."

"Well, I just mean, it could cause an emergency. If his water breaks, they'd have to operate within the hour. I mean, I don't want to-- I think it's beautiful how you two... I just don't want anything bad to happen to him, you know?"

 _Please be nicer to her, Dale_ , Saul strains to telepathize.

"Yes, thank you for explaining. And thanks for all your troubles with him while I'm gone."

"Don't get me wrong, I think affection is very, very important! Mr. Silver is a lucky guy. And I'm sorry I don't knock when I barge in..."

Saul flushes the toilet and walks out slowly.

Dale pulls Saul's boxers back up from his ankles for him. "Is everything okay?"

Saul grins. "What, you want a rundown of everything I did in there? Thanks, Alice!" he calls after the nurse who waves, smiling as she shuts the door.

"I am so proud of you, man," Dale says, clasping Saul's hand again after helping him lie back on the gurney. "I really think you got over the hump. You're not a prisoner of weed anymore, doesn't that feel good?"

"Honestly, not really," Saul mumbles, yawning.

***

The call comes early in the morning. Saul can barely open his eyes, can barely speak, and answers his cell with a guttural "'lo?" And the voice on the other end of the line is sharp and formal and verifies that he's Saul Silver before informing him that one Faye Belogus passed away during the night at their retirement home.

"Oh." Saul is wide awake now, but still tongue-tied.

"... Our condolences on your loss. You're the closest relative on file with us, so I'm assuming you want to make the funeral arrangements?"

Big fat tears begin descending down Saul's face. Dale picks up his head, groggy eyes squinting at him, but Saul can't help it.

"Solly?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm still here."

"Are you going to be making the funeral arrangements?"

"Um." The tears are dripping on the sheets. "Um, can I return your call?"

Saul closes his phone before the retirement home administrator has a chance to finish reiterating her condolences. He bites his index finger, blinking furiously, tears still managing to run down his cheeks.

"Shit, man, what was that about?"

Saul registers Dale's voice, but everything sounds far away and hollow. It's like quitting pot squared.

"Saul? What was it? Who was calling?"

"My Bubbe, man. My Bubbe died. Oh fuckinggod, she's really just dead... and I'll never see her again..." Saul hears his own voice crack and jump all over the place between sobs, and he sees that Dale is uncomfortable as all hell. "Fuck, Dale, I can't do this, I can't. I need weed. I can't make it." Saul rubs tears away with his palm, pushing hard into his face as if doing mild violence to himself can make him feel better.

"Saul--" but that's all Dale says. He gets up and grabs Saul's shoulders, pats his back, and presses his lips to Saul's, but Saul's completely snotted up and can't breathe and breaks away from Dale.

"Get me weed. Or get me out of here. I don't care. Just get me weed."

"Saul, it's a crutch. Just a crutch. Your Bubbe died, but she went on to a better place, right? And weren't you waiting to start finally living your life or whatever when she'd be gone?"

Saul struggles out of Dale's embrace. "That is the shittiest thing you have ever said to me. Seriously."

"No-- I don't mean--" Dale's eyes dart side to side a little. "You yourself... with euthanasia talk and whatever... what was that supposed to be about... civil engineering children's playground potties..."

"Just don't even." Saul feels so much resentment bubbling up, suddenly, maybe because he's still withdrawing like crazy and just doesn't give a fuck about covering it up for Dale's sake. The only person in the world who loved him unconditionally is gone, and he wants Dale to be that person now, very badly wants it, but it's not going to happen, and only now does it hit Saul, how depressing that is.

Dale strokes Saul's arm, but Saul moves it away. "All I'm saying is, you should mourn and all that, but it's not like, the end of the world. She's lived a long happy life-- thanks to you, I'm gonna add-- and now she died peacefully. I'm not saying you shouldn't cry, but don't like, decide to take a U-turn on everything."

"I don't care. I just want to curl up and die." Saul turns to his side, away from Dale.

"Fine. Fine, curl up and, um, die, and I'll give you a backrub," Dale says and Saul wants to protest, but Dale's hands on his back just feel so good, not even in any sort of sexual way, just calming and reassuring, and Saul keeps crying.

"I'm just such a fuckup. She called me while I was here, like two days ago. I didn't call her once since I left home, and she actually called me, and I _didn't pick up_ , just because I felt crappy and didn't want to talk to her and have her hear my miserable voice. And that's like my last interaction with Bubbe, ignoring her. Fuuuck." The last word comes out as one long sob.

"Okay, but maybe it's all for the best? If you talked to her she'd have been all worried about you right up until she died. This way at least she didn't know how crappy you felt, out of context and whatnot."

"I don't know. All she wanted was to see me like get married and have kids, and I like didn't even try, kept putting it off and now it's too late."

"You're, uh, kidding, right? What the fuck are you doing right now, if not having kids?"

"I don't think it's the way she wanted it."

"Well... okay... but I'm sure she'd have gotten over that and loved them anyway."

"Well it's not like we're gonna keep them. So it's like this whole thing is completely, like, fertile."

"Futile."

"Yeah."

Saul feels Dale's hands slow to a standstill. "Well..." Saul's still getting those convulsive aftershock sobs, but he actually hears Dale swallow hard. "What if I told you that we'll keep them if they're, like, you know... okay, health-wise?"

Saul tenses up.

"... Would that make you feel better, man?" Dale asks, voice sounding... not really annoyed, but weirdly exasperated.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, like, keep them. Raise them ourselves. Like, what are we both waiting for? I mean, I think we make shitty parents right now, but so do most people, right? We can't be that much worse than average. I mean, if they're healthy, of course..."

"Fuck, Dale."

"Only if you want. I don't want you to be unhappy, man."

Saul realizes he completely forgot about Bubbe for a few moments there. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Hell yeah. I think that'd be awesome. That's like the mother of all projects."

"Good. Good." Dale's voice sounds stiff. "Please just don't get too upset. It's not good for you right now, I bet. Like, I'll miss her a lot too, and I didn't even see her in her heyday or whatever. She was awesome, as far as old ladies go."

Saul's getting new tears all over again, and he still hasn't turned back to look at Dale.

"I'll call in sick to work. Fuck them. I don't want to leave you like this."

"Dale..." Saul turns onto his back.

"Yeah."

"Dale, you are the best, smartest person on earth. I didn't even, like, know it, even though you were already my favorite person on earth, but now it's like all true blue, the truth comes out, and now I know it. You're the best."

Dale exhales. "Yeah, I... I hope so."


	14. July 2, 2008

Dale watches Saul watch television. The sound of Judge Judy's authoritarian tones overlayed with the Mozart for Prenates Saul is playing against his stomach is quietly driving Dale insane. He watches Saul's belly rise up and down with each inhalation-- even breathing looks laborious. Saul hitches up his gown way up to his chest and starts scratching his stretched skin. His nails look terrible-- he's been chewing on them non-stop. He has five days or so worth of stubble, not that it matters much. Saul never shaved more than once every three days anyway. The whole room is full of a sour smell of sweat and something else. Dale gets used to it when he's been sitting there for a few minutes, but walking in it's always an unpleasant shock. The hospital should really take better care of Saul for the amounts of money they charge to the insurance policy.

Dale decided to stay with Saul instead of going to work, but Saul's resilient and stopped crying early on in the morning. The decision to stay was at least partially motivated by fatigue-- Dale just wants to sit there and... drift, mentally. Smoking weed always gave him an official opportunity to do so, but the days since Saul moved to the hospital have been wearying in so many ways. Dale feels a crushing sense of responsibility and simultaneous helplessness. He has no idea how to help Saul, but he feels that he should know and do everything... and that Saul tacitly expects that he can.

Dale can't take it anymore when Saul starts using both hands to scratch. "What the hell, dude! Stop scratching it so hard, you're going to break the skin." 

"It's itching like crazy all the time."

"Just leave it alone. Maybe they should let you have a shower once in a while."

"It's not cause my skin's dry, I think it's just stretched."

"Maybe you're not shedding skin because you never shower."

Dale contemplates going downstairs to the drugstore in the lobby to see if there's any anti-itch creams, but Saul stops. Judge Judy reaches her verdict and the next plaintiff and defendant are about to step up when Saul groans "Ouch, shit" and Dale feels sort of frightened and queasy when he sees Saul's skin actually get twisted and pulled by cramped movements of small knees and elbows inside. You can practically see the outlines of two beings when they try to break out like that. 

Suddenly it's as if Dale's finding out for the first time again. He had to go away and throw up when the doctors first showed them the ultrasound, and he feels kind of ill now too. Why did he ever offer to raise two babies on a whim? He wanted to make Saul feel better at that moment, but the more he thinks about it now, the more he stares at that red-scratched belly rise up and down, and at Saul's total immersion in watching Judge Judy, the more he's doubting how this will ever work out.

"They're like punching my bladder... gonna squeeze the piss out of me like that." Saul grimaces and arches his back, trying to rearrange himself on the bed until they quiet down again. "Can you hold the little urinal thing for me?"

Dale places the little plastic urinal around Saul's cock as he pees for a preternaturally long time-- the pregnancy's compressing his urethra, which apparently doesn't happen in female anatomy. The best of both worlds, isn't it. But Saul doesn't look too perturbed by the pathetic trickle, and Dale is amazed at his multitasking abilities of pissing and blabbering on at the same time. "Thanks, man. It's really annoying... You know you've reached a low point when you can't hold your own dick anymore. Fucking embarrassing to call in a nurse every time, when I have to go like every hour or two."

Dale doesn't know how Saul lives with all of it. He should probably stop staring at him, because the longer he stares, the more alien Saul's body starts to look, but he can't look away either. Saul's bellybutton used to be an innie, he could swear, but now it's popped out. There was a small mole above his right hip, and now it's stretched to the size of a penny, and lighter and Dale feels hypnotized by it.

Saul looks at over at Dale, finally. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing." Dale goes to empty the urinal contents down the toilet in the adjoining little room.

"God, I miss her. Bubbe, I mean. Now I keep wanting to call her, and almost pick up the phone and shit. It's really disturbing..."

"Yeah, that's too bad." Dale says, sounding more distracted than he intended.

"Are you okay, man?" Saul finally asks, brow arched, tone completely altered. "Do you want a handjob or something?"

"Me?" Dale bristles. "Why?"

"I don't know. You're here with me all day. I told you it was boring. You look like you need one or something."

Dale shakes his head. He'd like to cheer up, but he doubts anything will lift the crushing weight of that stupid promise he made.

He is not ready to be a parent, in any sense of the word, and Saul... Saul is ready for everything, by virtue of not really thinking things through. He was ready to go on the run at the drop of a hat, he was ready to try to shoot their way out of a huge abandoned government complex, and he's probably ready to parent with that same haphazard, loosey-goosey attitude. It's all spur of the moment with him. But he's always looked to Dale to actually tell him what to do, and Dale doesn't know what to tell him about this. It might not be life-and-death danger, but it is a life-changing decision. Saul might think he's ready to be a parent, but he probably doesn't realize the whole weed addiction and not-having-a-real-job thing are not all that conducive to raising kids. Not like Dale can tell him any of this in so many words-- not after offering to raise them. 

Saul's phone rings, and he looks at it puzzled before answering.

"Who is this?-- Who?-- _Mom_? Shit, how did you even get this number?" Saul looks at Dale with a deer in the headlights look, and Dale tries to remember the few things Saul ever mentioned about his mother. Saul leans his head forward, covering his other ear to listen more intently.

"No, Mom, I don't know. I haven't even been down there to sign the papers. -- You're where? -- I have no idea. -- No, I'm telling you, I have no idea. -- Mom, shit, you don't talk to me for years and then this is what you call me about? Shit. -- Yeah, okay. -- Bye."

Saul slumps back into his bed, throwing his arm across his eyes. "News travels fast. She already wants to know what Bubbe left me in her will or whatever. I mean, how the fuck should I know? Fuck this shit. Fuck. She doesn't care about Bubbe dying at all, and then she calls me about this crap?"

Dale twiddles his fingers, not sure he can comment without knowing more about the situation.

Saul lies there, his nasal breathing all loud and rapid and tense, still covering his eyes with his forearm, punching the bed lightly with his other arm. Dale wonders if it's real animosity or just a bad combination of grief and lack of THC. 

"She doesn't call me for like, I don't even know," Saul starts up again. "I think I spoke to her once like five years ago on the phone. Last time I saw her, I must have been maybe fifteen. Fuck. She didn't get along with Bubbe at all, and me she just like decided to dump because she didn't like my dad or whatever. Fuck all this."

"So why does she care what your Bubbe left you?"

"I don't know! Probably because she wants some of it. She was seriously saying she was going to fly up here if I wasn't going to take care of it."

"Well, maybe she's just being nice? Like, looking out for you?"

Saul lifts his arm and looks at Dale. "Somehow I doubt it. Really. She's like a deadbeat mom, if there is such a thing."

"Ouch, harsh. Well she can't be entitled to any of it herself... you took care of Bubbe up until the end, and she's not even a blood relation--"

"Oh I don't even know. She'll probably come up here and start asking me for stuff."

"Can't you just brush her off, then?"

"What am I gonna say? 'No'? She's my friggin' mother."

"But it's rightfully yours."

Saul leans his head back on the pillow, covering his eyes with his arm again. "Whatever. She's probably an old woman who needs it, by now. Besides, I don't want her to see me like this. So hopefully I can just transfer everything over to her by phone or something, and avoid like actually seeing her. Maybe I'll have to ask you to give her stuff."

Dale is too curious not to ask, so he proceeds as tactfully as he can. "Why don't you want her to know?"

"Because she hated being pregnant, she told me so many times. She always said 'Oh, I was so gross when I was pregnant with you.' and she always blamed me for the extra weight she had years later, and any varicose veins that showed up, or I don't even know. I thought she was really pretty, actually, but I was like a bad reminder to her that she wasn't twenty anymore or whatever."

"That's fucked up." 

Saul sighs and nods. "Yeah, so I don't really want to see her now. I just like, wish she would try to at least fake that she cares about me a little, you know? If she's going to ask for money now? At least you're not like that to me, man. So many people are all take, take, take, and they never give. Like the Kaiser."

"Yeah." Something in Dale withers in shame. He's just glad he didn't say anything to Saul before that phonecall.

***

Spurred on by the unpleasant exchange, Saul calls back the retirement home and asks them to give all the papers he has to sign to Dale. Dale speaks with them and gets formally authorized to pick up the documents. He feels reluctant to get up and go on errands, because he's been so tired these last few days, always alone on the job or selling weed, worrying much more about Saul than he ever used to. He never guessed he'd miss those weekend mornings when he and Saul would lie around spooning, not just because of affection, but because it was the only way they'd really fit on Saul's narrow mattress. He misses having sex with Saul, and cooking with Saul, and not worrying about possible impending doom involving Saul dying during a horrible freak operation.

Dale sits in his car contemplating all this and doesn't drive off, banging fingertips on the steering wheel, feeling a sudden urge to call his parents, especially after Saul's diatribe about people failing to keep in touch. His mom picks up-- she's the one who works from home-- and speaks hesitantly. He asks how things are going to stall for time, but his mom doesn't elaborate much, assures him things are going fine, asks if he's going to visit this Christmas maybe, because last year's was so bleak without him. Dale sighs and mumbles 'maybe' and then awkwardly segues it into 'Maybe, if you'll still want me to come after what I tell you' followed by nervous laughter, and then he almost hangs up right then and there, but his mother deserves better. So he starts.

"I got in trouble with the police a while ago, remember? And lost my job?"

"Yes..." 

Dale can hear a building dread in her voice, and he's sorry but also hoping that she anticipates something worse than what he'll end up saying. And what will he end up saying? The longer he drags out the suspense, the higher the chance that he'll back out and cut the saga short. "I moved in with a friend."

"Okay..." 

The next part is going to be painful and Dale can't quite mutter it out, so his mother starts to try filling in. 

"Is this a friend from work?"

"No, this friend is- uh, was- my drug dealer, actually."

There's no answer. 

"This is just marijuana, we're talking about. You know how nazi they are about that over here."

"Yes..." God, her voice sounds tense. But she doesn't scold him yet and tries to sound preemptively sympathetic too, and Dale appreciates that.

"So... we started sleeping together..." Dale chokes on that one.

The other end of the line is quiet for a moment. "Is she still dealing drugs?"

Dale gulps. How did he end up glossing over the part that Saul is a guy? "Um, it's a he. He's not really dealing drugs anymore, but..." Dale trails off, dreading a weird reaction, or hanging up, or something. But he can hear nothing. It's just a very long pause.

"Honey, do you have AIDS?"

"What? No!" Dale jerks his head away from the phone a little. "What?"

"Oh." His mother sounds so small and frightened. "Okay." 

Dale squeezes his eyes shut. The whole thing is unbearably embarrassing. His parents were never openly homophobic or anything, but they are pretty traditional in most respects. AIDS, God. What the fuck. But it's not like Dale gave them any fair warning.

His mother's voice resumes again. "Honey? Are you still there?"

"Yeah."

"Did you want to say something else...?"

"Um..."

"I think it's probably going to be okay. A lot of people your age experiment." She sounds nervous but is desperately trying to hide it. "Or...are you two still..."

"Yeah. We're still together."

"What happened to your girlfriend?"

"She basically dumped me. Anyway, this isn't at all about her. The thing is, my friend is, well, he's at the hospital right now..." Dale suddenly gets really tired of the conversation. "Never mind, I don't really want to elaborate on all this, Mom. Let me call you back tonight or something. This was a bad idea."

"No, Dale! Wait!"

Dale doesn't say anything, but doesn't hang up.

"Dale, honey, I think we need to visit you. I really haven't seen you in more than a year, and I- I just don't know whats going on anymore. You never seem to call..."

"Mom, it's not a very good time right now."

"I'm really worried about you. You sound like there's something wrong..."

Dale opens his mouth several times, trying to finish the story, but thinks better of it each time.

"Dale?"

"Yeah, it's not something wrong. It's just kind of maybe something major, and I feel weird that I haven't discussed this with you guys at all-- that's all. But I don't think I can tell you coherently right now. Maybe I'll call you back tonight, okay?"

He only realizes how tense his shoulders have gotten when he takes the steering wheel to drive off.

***

At the retirement home, Dale receives a bunch of papers. It should all be an easy transfer of possessions, they assure him, because Saul was listed as sole heir to everything. "Everything" is an interesting melange, carefully itemized. There are of course a nice hefty forty thousand dollars sitting in a savings account with criminally low interest-- perhaps less than Saul had paid out for her last six years in the nursing home, but still a nicer sum than Dale would have expected from their dysfunctional family tree. More interestingly there are itemized things with little notes: one Proctor Silex iron ("for when Solly goes to work in an office"), one chandelier ("for Solly's dining room when he gets a larger apartment"), three porcelain vases. Most of it is old lady stuff, but one is just labeled "Solly's box". 

When Dale gets taken into her studio apartment to make sure the items are all there, he finds this box, which is more of a crate, and spends quite some time looking through it. It's sort of amazing-- she's kept everything, report cards, every certificate and medal he ever got, it looks like. Dale wonder if it's a breach of some sort of confidentiality when he looks through it all: grades not so stellar, especially towards the end of high school, but a surprising number of medals for track team in middle school, of all things, chipped and cracked macaroni art that might be older than Dale, and even Saul's old Batman-themed nightlight. Dale is tempted to palm the nightlight just so he can bring it back to that dank hospital room and crack Saul up, if nothing else, but decides that's not worth possible brush-ins with the law, when they can barely pull off a legitimate front for the hospital and Medicaid as it is. 

Just as Dale is getting ready to leave and drop by Saul's apartment, he gets accosted by a bunch of Faye's friends and fields questions about Solly's whereabouts with as little outright lying as he can manage without giving them all premature heart attacks. They all wring their hands and discuss how Faye told them that he hadn't picked up the phone, and Dale silently wonders whether even a tenth of this number of people would care or even notice if he suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Saul would care at least. Dale always laughed off Saul's "GodI'msogladtoseeyou!"s every time he came back from work, thought it was just forced bedrest and weed prohibition that encouraged that sort of attachment and worst-case-scenarioism, but he resolves to relish it from now on.

***

Dale misses the first few rings of Saul's call because he's looking through the dresser for more of Saul's boxers, a little dismayed when he realizes that he'll probably have to do laundry, or just go out and buy him a bunch of pairs, which sounds much more half-assedly tempting at this point. 

"What's going on?" Dale hugs the cell to his ear with his shoulder as he flicks through the envelopes of bills and junkmail that have piled up in their mailbox. He stops multitasking when he hears Saul's weirdly distressed voice beg him to come back to the hospital, that the doctor has been in to see him and told him that there was a bunch of things going wrong, and that they'd have to operate within a couple of days if it didn't get better.

"Hang on, hang on, tell them to wait until I come back."

"That's exactly what I told them."

Dale assures him he's done with errands, and just grabs a bunch of his own underwear. Saul hates tighty whiteys, but it can't be worse than wearing the same boxers for days and days when he's leaking mucus. Dale wonders if he'll ever wear the underwear again knowing Saul has been bedbound in it, and decides that it doesn't really matter.

Saul calls Dale again when he's already driving over. "I don't get it," he says, without so much as a 'hi'.

"What don't you get."

"I put in so much effort. And what, now they're messed up?"

"Oh come on, man. You didn't even bother quitting weed." Dale glances at his rearview mirror and ducks into a faster lane.

"So? I tried to do everything else right."

"You didn't eat vegetables, you stopped taking your prenatal vitamins..."

"They were seriously disgusting!! I threw up from them twice!"

"Shh! Okay, but you didn't even bother to smoke through a bong--" Dale cuts his litany short when he hears something that might have been a sob. "Dude... I'm just saying. Are you crying or something?"

"No, I'm not." More weird short breaths crackle over the phone. "It was really hard, okay? I couldn't sleep right, I couldn't sit, my back was fucking killing me, and I'm not even talking about being here, sober as fuck, in like constant pain..." 

Dale flinches. "Okay, okay, you don't have to prove anything to me, man, I'm not putting you down. Fuck, I don't know any guy who'd do a better job. I just don't want you to feel bad if something doesn't turn out with them. I mean, I think the odds were actually way against you from the very start."

"Are you fucking _relieved_? Because that's really low of you, man. If you don't want to deal with this just say so, because, fuck, I'm not going to hold you hostage against your will." Saul's words are running together and it sounds like he's hyperventilating.

Dale frowns. "What? Hostage? What the hell are you even saying?"

"You know. You think I'm gonna like freak out if you say you don't want them, and want nothing to do with me anymore, but I'd rather you just said that and got up and left than be all relieved that they're turning out fucked up."

"Dude, just... no. None of that again, okay? I care more about you than about them, yeah, that I'll admit. And I'm not relieved, that's not what this is about, at all, so just stop martyring yourself. You sound awful, is your breathing okay?"

Dale hears Saul take a long breath. "No-o, I'm not okay. They even said I have like preclampsing and shit, whatever that is."

"Preclampsing? Is that like you're squeezing them out? That's not a stage of giving birth or something is it?"

"Um..." Saul's voice actually sounds calmer for a moment as he tries to reason it out or remember something. "I don't think so. I hope not! Otherwise I'm really fucked and like going to be giving birth for two days and then they're going to cut me open anyway?"

"No, dude, that doesn't make any sense. Forget it."

"Yeah. Anyway." Saul's lamenting tone returns. "I can't even breathe all the way in with them in there stuffed up against my lungs. And it's all for like nothing now?"

"Okay, calm down, man. Just calm down."

"You always say that. You just don't give a shit."

"No, I want to discuss this calmly, okay? First of all, the doctors might be wrong. You don't trust them on anything, and then now suddenly you're their #1 fan or something? It can't be that bad, can it? They're moving like they're doing somersaults in there. Like they're swimming laps or something. They can't be all that fucked up, can they?"

"I don't know! I don't know anything. Shit."

"Just don't even listen to any of the doctors until I get there, okay? Happy thoughts, man, happy thoughts."

"Then talk to me the rest of the way. Because I have no one else to talk to here."

Dale switches on speakerphone and tries to stay within ten mph of the speed limit.


	15. July 3, 2008

The doctor is recounting all the problems Saul seems to be having for Dale's benefit, and Saul really doesn't want to hear about it anymore, even though he was the one who insisted that they come back and talk to Dale. He has a maddening urge to just curl up and hug his knees-- it's amazing, the kinds of things he took for granted before all this happened. Instead he has to content himself with just looking down, pretending he doesn't have a clue about anything the doctor is rattling off. Even looking down he's confronted with his stupid, bloated, malfunctioning body.

All the blood tests were coming back with bad results, his blood urea was high, his testosterone was skyrocketing, his blood pressure was borderline for preeclampsia, the placenta was growing out of control. Even with Dale next to him, it still sounds depressing as all hell. Dale listens to everything calmly, and then, only at the very end points out that a lot of these problems seemed to have arisen during the hospital stay, and this ticks the doctor off to no end. He slams the clipboard to his chest, as if that somehow makes the conversation go off the record, and then he starts berating them for all the blatant, rampant weed use despite courteous warnings to stop during every visit, his tone so much more annoyed and much less professional, and Saul really begins to feel a mounting panic at this man in uniform-- any uniform-- knowing so much about his weed habits.

"Mr. Silver, your lungs are full of tar. You starve them of oxygen, you're going to get low birth weight, underdeveloped, under-intelligent children."

Saul winces, because he can't ignore the words, crisp and devastating, each of those adjectives burning a hole in him or something. He feels the first stinging tear begin to make its way down his face when the doctor says it, and he sinks his head as low as he can but doesn't wipe it away either because that would be admitting defeat, or something.

And then Dale steps in, saying "Please don't yell at him" or something to that effect, the wording doesn't matter, it's the calm and authoritative tone, and when the doctor tries to protest that he wasn't yelling, Dale suggest they take it outside, and for that Saul will be eternally grateful. Dale could probably be a fucking doctor himself if he just studied for a few years, Saul thinks, and tries to drift off into the fantasy of having Dale be his doctor, and surgeon, and nurse, and midwife, and lawyer, and even the fucking mailman if Saul had his way, why not. He wouldn't have to put up with shit from anyone else.

Now they're only two voices, muffled behind the door, and Saul is happy that he can't make anything out even if he tries. He's still smarting from what the doctor's said about his smoking-- he doesn't believe it anyway. How could something as pleasant and sweet and aromatic and wonderful as weed be worse for babies than this dank, joyless bedrest thing? Alcohol he could see. It has that edge, it makes me people rowdy and angry in larger quantities and he was never that much of a fan, but weed... it's as if he feels bad for the blame being placed on him _and_ on the weed.

"It was fucking best-grade chronic," he says out loud, but quietly, definitely not enough to get through the door where muffled voices are.

Dale finally walks back in alone.

"So?" Saul asks hesitantly.

Dale shrugs, approaching the bed, twisting a strand of Saul's hair around his finger. He's nervous too, he just didn't want to show the doctor. And he's trying not to show that he's nervous to Saul, and Saul appreciates that and forces himself to believe Dale knows what he's doing, because there's really no better alternative. 

"So what do they say?" Saul mumbles again, not even sure why he bothers. It's not like he can do much even if he finds out just how extensively screwed up everything is.

"Nothing to freak out over." Dale sighs. "They just don't know what they're doing either. They're nervous that they fucked up with you a little, and are trying to blame us, but I know your rights. They can't drug test without authorization. And even if they could have, how is marijuana use supposed to absolve the hospital from responsibility?"

Saul nods in frantic agreement.

"You got worse since you've been here, end of story. Anyway, I told him we just want a better room for you, with a window, like sunlight, fresh air and all that. And they promised they'd let you shower and walk around more and shit. I made them promise to make sure that you actually eat their hospital food, man, because you're like fasting here. It's not good."

"I don't wanna be in any room!" Saul suddenly sobs. It's not exactly a sob, he's shaking and having a weed-free freakout somehow, not crying, but maybe it's something worse. He can't even control the torrent of lamentations, and begins to wonder if that's how schizophrenia or bipolarity or whatever those 20s-onset diseases start. He really doesn't want to burden Dale with any more of his tantrum shit, because he can see through Dale a bit, see that Dale's on the cusp of freaking out too. But he can't help it and just selfishly lets it loose. "I don't want to be here! I just don't want to deal with any of this, I don't want to have the operation, I don't want to see that doctor ever again, I don't want to eat their crappy food, I don't want to be lectured, I don't want them touching me, I don't want to be cut open, I don't want to die here..."

Saul trails off into just hyperventilating, his hands shaking, snotting up-- he knows he looks bizarre right now but he can't stop either. A full blown weed-free panic attack. And Dale just takes the blanket he uses off the cot and covers both of their heads, like the most half-assed tent in the world, and whispers "Okay, now there's no more room, no more fucking hospital, just us, so calm down" and Saul does feel better, maybe just from staring into Dale's big pupils, dilated in the low light, and looking unusually kind and sympathetic. Saul doesn't even say that he loves Dale, Dale says it, out of the blue, and it sounds weird being said in Dale's voice.

Saul wants to say something back but he just can't, and they're kissing, still under the blanket, and if only he were even a little bit high this through-fabric lighting and the feel of it on their heads would be totally blowing Saul's mind and make this even better. It's still great sober. Saul can't breathe through his stuffed up nose, but he's not about to tear away. Maybe he's going to suffocate and die, but he's not tearing away. It's Dale who finally lets go of his mouth and stares at Saul, and Saul starts leaning in to kiss again, because godknows it's not sex but it's still fucking good, and still allowed.

But Dale leans in and frenches Saul's nose. Saul jerks away after realizing that Dale's actually applying suction, and wipes at it nervously. "Whoa..."

"That's how much I love you, man, all right?" Dale says. "Give me your tired, your poor, your cum, your tears, your snot, et cetera, okay? I want to feel your pain."

Saul gives out a little nervous laugh, not sure if he should be happy that Dale managed to gross _him_ out, for once.

"And as for them..." Dale says looking down and rubbing the belly. "They don't turn out well... then we'll definitely be sad for them, what can I say, but I'm not bailing on you. We'll be sad together and we'll move on together."

"I don't want them to be messed up..." Saul says, voice still shaking. "I don't even know why. It's just depressing. I don't want something messed up inside me. Like, it actually disgusts me, the thought of it."

"Why are you so elitist all of a sudden? That's not like you."

"I don't know. I just... I don't want them if they're messed up. I don't even want to see them. I so don't want to have this operation..."

"You want to be pregnant like this forever?"

"No." Saul chews his lip, frowning. "Actually, I read about this woman who just didn't go through labor and the fetus turned into a like calcified bone type of thing inside her. They took it out years later. Sick."

Dale shakes his head. "Why do you even read all this freakish morbid crap? Of course you're going to be nervous about them being messed up now."

"I want to get high," Saul mutters. "Like, what if I die here in the hospital having been sober for so many days."

"Dude, it's only been five days or something. What, are you afraid you're not going to get into weed heaven if your pee is clear on the day you die?"

"No." Saul laugh-sniffs. "I just want to get high. This whole place is such an intense buzzkill, I need like chemical help to counteract it."

Dale shrugs. "Okay. I guess it can't hurt them, if everything's really as bad as he says."

Saul chews his lip and squints in the harsh fluorescent lighting when Dale takes the blanket off their heads and begins folding it up. "Do you think I messed them up by smoking? That they're going to be low birthweight because I couldn't give smoking up?"

"I dunno, man. If they were low birthweight, would you really have blown up into such a cow?"

"Shut the fup," Saul says, untensing enough to laugh, wondering if he can remember any other insult that has ever made him feel better.

***

"Come over one day and I can teach you to make this shit," Red says pointing a spatula at Dale then at the chunk of cannabutter he just took out of the fridge. It's concentrated stuff, even the color is not entirely yellow-- kind of a sickening greenish tint unless you know that's sweet, sweet cannabis, and then it seems more inviting.

"Maybe," Dale says, genuinely interested in all forms of cannabis intake, though he always figured weed via food was a game he may not want to play. "How long does it take to make that, anyway?"

"Well, lots of people use a half-assed method, which takes like a few hours, and just wastes a lot of THC. But I do it the old-fashioned way, straining cheesecloth, separate overnight, the works. You get mad strong sticks of butter like that."

Dale wants to point out the 'stick' is more like a shapeless chunk, or maybe it used to be bowlshaped but Red's been dipping into it for other cooking projects, perhaps.

"In any case, I figure I'll send him like 2 ounces in 9 muffins?" Red digs into the cannabutter slab in a way that can't possibly be that precise. "You said he's not been eating much in there, so we better make it concentrated. So, like, a muffin a day will get him high for hours. Half a muffin if he wants to really stay on the down-low."

"So why not just make brownies?"

"Because..." Red rolls his eyes. "You want to be Captain Obvious? Bring in a pan of brownies. Nobody suspects a muffin."

"Well, I'm just wondering why you never hear about anybody making magic muffins. You only ever hear of brownies. Are they just more potent?"

Red puts his hands on his hips, and with that apron he looks a bit intimidating and Dale regrets questioning him. "My muffins are potent, dude. More potent than you can handle. Brownies are for newbs."

There's an awkward silence and Red's not moving to start making the muffins so Dale finally mutters a "Yes, okay, I get it" and at least that seems to placate Red.

"How's he doing anyway? I figure I might come to visit this weekend or something. But hospitals are depressing and that tiny room? I can't spend an hour there."

"Yeah, I'm on the list for getting him a better room. There aren't that many set up for singles with a window."

"Why does he need a single anyway?" Red asks, assembling his Kitchen-Aid mixer. "He's a pretty social guy."

"Because we don't want to freak people out? Seriously, it's not like the most aesthetic of medical conditions."

"Oh please, he'd look great if he just kept up his hygiene more. Which I guess you should be taking care of, at this point?" Red says, arching a judgmental eyebrow, and Dale wants to protest his innocence in the matter, declare that Saul himself is averse to showering and was even complaining about the spongebath he gets every other day, but the mixer is on and drowns everything out. When Red's done he ejects the two metal beaters and licks at them before throwing them in the sink with a clang. "Anyway, I really think you two should go public. Do you know how much free shit you'll get? You'll be swimming in pacifiers. Like, glow in the dark pacifiers... I know they're for finding it if the light is off, but I keep thinking of babies at raves. Actually, those things might be poisonous if they burst. I wouldn't give them to your kids."

"Red, I'm kind of in a hu--" Dale tries to stop this train of thought but Red is still going, and has completely forgotten about the muffin pan he poured the dough into. Dale sticks it into the oven, burning the top of his wrist because he grazes metal. It's still better than using Red's weird frilly mitts designed to resemble some awful cartoonish rodents.

"I'm just saying. You guys need to learn to take advantage of stuff like this. You can probably get serious money for doing joke interviews. Like Reader's Digest or something, they're always going for human interest. They might be too conservative."

"What about Oprah?" Jessica says, walking into the living room in what must be a Victoria's Secret nightslip or whatever those things are called. Dale quietly wonders in the back of his mind if he'll ever miss these things... breasts, a waist, long blond hair when he stares at Red's wife. The more he stares the more he's convinced that the slip might be a Victoria's Secret knockoff, and begins to wonder why she's wearing a Christmas-themed one in July.

"Or yeah, Oprah! Housewives will eat your story up. And at the very least GLAAD will be like in love with you guys and make sure you don't get screwed over by the hospital."

Dale looks away from Jessica when she leans on the counter between the living room and kitchen and her breasts almost spill out. "Wha...? GLAAD is... oh. Yeah. Well, honestly, I don't think it's the best move, not when we're neck deep in criminal activity. As we speak." Dale kicks the oven. "God that smells weird. I thought it'd smell like weed, but it smells like we making muffins with spinach. Are you sure he's going to eat it?"

"I put in more sugar than in the recipe. Because he _is_ a picky bastard, isn't he?"

"Only when it comes to food, apparently." Dale laughs without mirth. "Don't know what the hell he sees in me, exactly, but I go along with it."

"Hey, he's a good dude. Don't knock him... till you've tried him... Oh, but you have." Red is grinning, and Dale wonders if the dough residue on the beaters was enough to account for Red's weirdness.

***

Time flows differently when he's high, Saul decides. He can't remember having been this high in his entire life, and he's spent more than half of it smoking weed, so this is something of a milestone. It's as if the THC is creeping up on him, and he's not even entirely sure it feels good anymore. It felt great when it only just started, like water on a parched throat, but now it's kind of gratuitous and wasteful. He used to like that 'stoooned' feeling in his body, the weird sensation that he can't lift an arm unless he makes a supreme effort, but that's only fun when you're otherwise an able-bodied guy who's going get up off the couch eventually and run around town looking for chips after the high starts wearing off. Now he's bedbound and disabled, and he can't even relax into the high because he's afraid he's going to piss himself sooner or later, and because Dale's going to have to deal with it, and Dale is one unhappy looking mofo right now. He's shaking his head every time Saul hiccups, and Saul's been hiccuping for a while now, and Dale's sighs are more annoying than the hiccups themselves.

"You're going to break the bed like that. Two hundred twenty fucking pounds of hiccups. Jesus. You'll end up with a hernia again, man."

"I'd stop if I could, you know?" Saul points out.

"It's because you fucking inhaled those things. Seriously, who eats eight muffins in one sitting? You barely eat for days and then all of a sudden you pull a Kobayashi? Something is seriously wrong with you."

Saul sits processing. He knows Dale's angry. He has every right to be, obviously, and Saul wants to show that he's sorry, that he cares and that he regrets doing something stupid like this, but it's as if all that cannamuffin just won't let him give a shit-- not all the way. "Who's Kobayashi?" he finally asks in a daze, and Dale doesn't bother giving a reply.

The high is still building up... Saul can't make a fist no matter how much he tries. He thought he'd handle it better. It's embarrassing to be so gone. He shouldn't have eaten so many, but at the time, he was so desperate for a high... It was such a happy moment when Dale came back from Red's and opened the gallon size ziplock to take out the pan. 'I love you' Saul kept repeating, full of wild craving and excitement and love, and Dale did that 'Do you love me or the muffins?' shtick, but he wasn't angry with Saul then, and it was such a happy moment. And Saul went and ruined it, just because he got impatient and freaked when fifteen minutes after eating one he couldn't feel anything. He didn't plan to eat more... he sent Dale downstairs to the cafeteria to get him a drink because the muffin was greasy, but he was gone a long time, or what felt like a long time, and Saul reached over for the pan and started eating them one by one, sort of convincing himself that Dale and Red must have fucked up and burnt up the THC or maybe used the wrong layer when the butter separated, or... something, anything. Now he's nauseous, and it feels like the muffins are clogging up his insides.

 _Hic!_ Saul thought they might have stopped, but there he goes again, and the whole universe seems to jump in front of his eyes. Saul tastes sour muffins come up his esophagus but he swallows it back down quickly as if nothing happened. "It's weird because I'm so full of muffin, but getting high still makes me think I want pickles or something. I'm like hungry and vomity at the same time, it's kind of funny." 

"Hilarious," Dale says, and Saul sinks a little because, yes, he does sound high and what he thinks is an interesting observation withers into this trite, irrelevant stupidity as soon as it leaves his mouth, and especially when Dale hears it. He thinks about telling Dale how the hungry-vomity thing is really similar to him being full of fetuses and stuff, but still feeling a giant void where he wants Dale's cock in his ass right _now_. But he's hazily convinced that this would not be received in good spirits. 

Then Saul remembers. "Hey, Dale? There's still that one left over. I left it for you."

"Yeah, thank you kindly, sir."

"You're not gonna have it?" Saul can't help feeling rejected, even though it's probably childish, but weed distills emotions or something. 

Dale turns to him with a pained look. "Dude, I told you when I brought them, we put a whole two ounces' worth of weed into that batch. Two fucking ounces! Seventy fucking joints-worth. I mean, I'm kind of worried. Is it possible to overdose like this?"

"You can't overdose on weed, man. Fact." It's a fact that's emblazoned in Saul's brain-- something he never forgets no matter how high he ends up.

"Are you sure that's not just that you can't overdose by smoking?" Dale lowers his head into his hands, rubbing them against his forehead in a nervous frustrated motion, muttering something into his chest, and Saul wants to touch that curly hair so badly that his hands itch. But Dale's face emerges again, looking depressed and saying depressing downer things. "Fuck. Fuck this whole thing. Even if you don't die, you're already fucking blitzed out. What am I gonna do when the nurse comes to check on you before bed?!"

"I can handle it," Saul says, articulating as much as he can, trying to will himself sober.

"Seventy joints-worth, you can handle?"

"It's not seventy. I left one. For you. So it's... seventy minus... whatever one, um, one ninth of seventy is." Math without a dollar sign always makes his head hurt a little.

"Yeah, like sixty. Great, that puts me at ease. Sixty joints, no problem. Yeah, forgive me for not partaking but I think at least one of us should be sober when she comes."

"She's not gonna notice."

"Just stop smiling. And don't talk. Maybe just go to sleep, man, before anyone comes in. They'll notice."

Saul didn't realize he was smiling. Weed does that sometimes, tightens your facial muscles without you really controlling it. Dale does that for Saul too... causes spontaneous smiling that he can't stop. He focuses on the TV, where PBS is showing something about organic gardening in your backyard. Dale watches it too, Saul notices when he looks over, and then Dale changes shirts and Saul catches a glimpse of Dale's bare upper body-- the potbelly, the "moobs" that Dale kept complaining about, just the utter whiteness of a body that hasn't seen the sun in years, and Saul's getting an uncontrollable urge to have sex. The babies are so quiet he's all but forgotten about them, and it's as if this whole hospital thing could be a joke, that he'll wake up from some weird dream and be in his own apartment with Dale lying beside him and his body tight and flat and compact and portable and Dale will give him a good, satisfying fuck up the ass when Saul nudges him to do it, because it feels good and they are just that comfortable with each other. He tries watching the gardening show, but all he wants is to be with Dale. Somewhere beyond the arc of his belly, out of his line of sight, he's pretty sure his cock is growing turgid.

"I really want to grow my own stuff, you know?" Saul is proud that he doesn't blurt out that he wants to just come already. He's hoping to divert Dale's attention from this weed overdose thing, maybe enough that he'll get over being annoyed and give Saul a handjob. "I think I could be good at it. I grew heirloom tomatoes indoors. Like hydroponically. I don't even like tomatoes, but I made them into a salad type thing with so much balsamic vinegar that it didn't taste like tomatoes anymore. Red said they were good. It's really cool though. Did you ever stop to think about how we, like, grow cannabis, right? And we think it's serving us, but actually we grow it and breed it and take care of it, so maybe it's getting more benefit than we are. Like we are its slaves or something..."

Saul looks around the room and realizes he's alone, and terror electrifies his whole body in the way it does only when he's high. Where could Dale have gone? The bathroom is right there. Dinner, Saul repeats to himself. Dinner makes sense. Why Dale left so silently doesn't, but Saul's not going to try to guess why. He sits watching the show, but can't help feeling trapped and alone. He could probably get up on his own if he tried while sober, but being this high he's not even going to attempt it. He feels like his legs are atrophying lying around on this bed all the time, and now he has to do his utmost just to make sure he doesn't start drooling or pissing. He really does need to take a piss, and the urgency of that combines with the tenterhooks of having been abandoned. Why did he even want to get stoned, he wonders now. Getting stoned used to be a way to cope with loneliness and earn a living, and then to build and sustain a friendship with Dale. 

He misses the feeling of heaviness of Dale lying on top of him, post-fuck. Heaviness is the feeling of love, feeling stoned is the poor man's substitute. He got what he wanted... permanently heavy, permanently weighed down with Dale's little girls, and now maybe Dale's fleeing for life after seeing just what an immature impulsive fuckup Saul really is. What was getting stoned going to do for him now, except annoy Dale? Saul tries not to think about the possibility that Dale may have walked out and will never, ever come back. "Stupid," Saul whispers to no one. "Stupid, stupid, stupid" and closes his eyes so as not to panic.

When Dale returns, Saul gives out an inadvertent little sigh. "Where _were_ you, man?"

Dale stares at him. "I told you, I'm going to take a phonecall outside. I was only gone like ten minutes, dude."

Saul pulls the blanket up to his chin. "I didn't hear you leave at all." He watches Dale sit down and fiddle with his cellphone. "I, um, need to take a piss."

Dale holds the urinal for him, caressing him with the other hand but looking away into an empty corner of the room. Saul can't piss like that.

"What's wrong?" Dale finally looks back at him.

"Don't stroke my stomach... it's making me too hard to piss."

Dale takes his hand away. "Just don't hiccup while you're pissing. Gonna spill all over everything"

Saul realizes he hasn't hiccuped since freaking out over Dale's absence, but doesn't say anything in case this idea is less revelatory outside of his head. Finally the urine starts flowing in a slow trickle. "So who was it?" Saul asks as casually as he can, which works out quite well when he's stoned.

"What?" Dale asks, abruptly looking up at Saul's face. "Oh. On the phone. Just my mom. She wants to come visit me here. I'm telling her that it's tricky, but she's hellbent on coming and dragging my dad with her, because she thinks I'm in some sort of crisis."

There's silence only broken by the slow stream of pee. Dale seems to be mulling over what to tell and not to tell Saul, and Saul's not going to interrupt.

"I told her about you, kind of. And the fact that you're in the hospital. Anyway, she wasn't even asking if she can come, she was just asking what the closest hotel was to our address. Like I would tell her."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's _your_ apartment, dude."

"Hey, I don't care. It's our apartment." Saul feels his brain working slowly but maybe more creatively. "Anyway, why don't they just stay at our place? It's empty and we're still paying rent."

Dale sighs. "Um, I'd have to go clean it up majorly. We live in a pigsty. Actually, I should probably clean it up anyway."

Saul chews his lip before offering up the next bit. "I wanna meet your parents."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do." Dale squints at him. "You're drooling a bit."

Saul winces, and clumsily wipes his chin on his shoulder. It hurts that Dale is so obviously embarrassed to show him to his parents, but Saul concedes he has a point, even through the mental fog.

"I can clean up my act, man. I'm just really disgustingly high right now. I wanna meet them, because you know what, I really love you man," Saul declares it as if it's the first time.

"Yeah, I know," Dale says absent-mindedly, obviously thinking about how to deal with his parents' visit. Dale shakes Saul's dick out and it immediately gets hard again.

"I really miss you fucking me," Saul mumbles as Dale's hand leaves and he pulls the gown back down.

"That's great."

"I wish you never had to go to work, and could just like, fuck me full-time, nine to five."

"I'm sure future employers will be thrilled with that resume item," Dale calls from the bathroom as he empties the urinal out.

"And then five to nine I'd give you head and you could just sit there and chill out and watch TV or whatever. Eat chips and dip."

"And that's your idea of a good time?" 

"Why not, man?" Saul feels he's had a revelation. "You know, I wish you could fuck me _and_ I could blow you at the same time. Don't you ever wish you had two cocks?"

"No."

"I do. It'd be so sweet, double the fun. And then if you like mangled one in an accident you'd always have a backup. Although, I guess it depends on where the second one is..."

"You know, they can hear all the crap you're rambling on about," Dale says, pointing at Saul's stomach. "Right through your body."

Saul pauses in foggy consternation, but then dissolves into laughter. "Come on, they don't know English yet."

"Well, and that's how you want to start them off?"

"... no." Saul doesn't say another word, wilting a little. It's not that he takes the asinine guilt-trip to heart, he just wishes his attempts at flirting weren't so retardedly high and sex-crazed. But it's hard to do otherwise when his whole pelvis is throbbing with want, much faster than his thoughts can form properly.

"What are we gonna list their last name as? If we keep them?" Saul suddenly asks.

Dale looks down at his hands. "How should I know."

"Should one be Silver and one be Denton? But that'd be kind of weird. Like they're not related to each other."

"I don't think it matters, man."

"Well no, how can it not matter. Aretha Denton. Marley Denton. Aretha Silver. Marley Silver. Aretha Denton-Silver. Aretha Silver-Denton. Marley Denton-Sil-"

Dale actually gets up and puts his hand over Saul's mouth, but he's smiling. "Jesus, dude. Stop. You're going to drive us both insane."

"Well, which one do you like best?" Saul mumbles into Dale's palm.

"I don't know, but Silver-Denton definitely sounds like a root canal or something." Dale pauses before yanking his hand back. "Dude! That's nasty, you're drooling all over the place!" He wipes his hand on his own pant leg.

"I'm really sorry, man. I never got this high smoking. Ever." 

Dale watches Saul try to wipe his lips but he's actually incapacitated enough that he can't. 

"Fuuuuck. I can't even lift my arms. My body feels like it weighs like a ton of lead. Stooooned..."

"A ton of lead as opposed to a regular run-of-the-mill ton?" Dale mutters.

"Yeah..." Saul pauses, then starts to laugh. "Oh I get it."

"Here," Dale gets a paper towel from the bathroom and wipes the lower half of Saul's face.

"Dale, what weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of bricks?"

Dale shakes his head. "I just said that, dude."

"No, you were talking about lead tons-- oh, I guess it is kind of the same." Saul squints at Dale-- kind of through Dale-- with a weird glassy look. His eyes are starting to hurt, but he can't even coordinate his hands to rub them. "So what if we combine them."

"Combine what." Dale says wearily.

"Like Sil...ton. Or... Denver."

Dale finally breaks down into a laugh. "Dude, just stop. You're getting more and more retarded."

"I just want to plan ahead, you know? Have my shit together."

"How about you plan ahead when you come down off the high."

Saul tries to stay quiet and watch TV, but he needs to come. "It feels so good when you touch me."

"I'm not touching you, man. I'm sitting all the way over here."

"Well, with your eyes or whatever. Your aura. You have like a big, soft, generous aura, did you know?"

"Are you sure? Because I think my aura is annoyed and impatient for you to go to sleep already."

Saul laughs with a delay. "No, seriously, you have such a good aura, Dale."

Dale's eyebrows look a little pained. "Dude, I have to tell you-- I have no clue what you're talking about."

"It's like, you think you're being nice to me on the surface, and that down under you have this like bad, selfish side, but even underneath-er that there's this core of like _goodness_ in you, and you don't even know it, but I'm telling you, I see it."

Dale blinks. "And, let me guess, you see this core of goodness only when you get high."

"No, I see it all the time. But I'm just embarrassed to tell you when I'm not high."

Dale pauses and even looks a bit uncomfortable before receding back into his distant, sarcastic tone. "Uh-huh. Well, good to know."

"You don't believe me about this aura stuff. But like, take them for example," Saul points at his stomach. "They don't see shit, they can barely hear anything, they think they live in this wet dark, cramped... like _cosmos_ in there, and they have no idea what's outside. That there is an outside."

"... And what does this have to do with anything, again?"

Saul licks his lips in exasperation. "Well, I mean like... just because they aren't aware of all the stuff out here, doesn't mean it doesn't exist, or doesn't affect them. They just don't know it. So just because I can't, like, actually see your aura, doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"Did you pick up this bargain basement Buddhism or whatever it is from Red?"

"See, right now you're like sort of being a dick, but down under you're a decent person who stays and babysits my stoned ass."

Dale sighs and looks at his hands. "It's fine. I knew what I was signing up for when I stayed with you."

Saul feels like he's flooding with an achy emotion, but he doesn't know what to call it. Being stoned heightens sensation but lowers vocabulary memory or something. "I wish I didn't embarrass you all the time. Like, all I want is, one day, for you to be like 'wow, Saul is a totally, totally awesome guy and I'm so glad I met him and I can't wait for my parents to meet him', but I don't even know what I should do to make you think that. I always feel like I'm the lowest common demonitor for you and that I blackmailed you by getting pregnant."

"... What?"

"And, like, I know that you're annoyed with me right now. I'm sorry." Saul turns to Dale finally, eyes struggling against the light. "Okay, I'm just going to say it. I kind of want to have sex with you..."

"Here and now?"

"Yeah... I know I'm not hot or anything, and I know I'm a fuckup, you think I don't know, but I know, and it's weird to me that we're even together at all. And I know you're pissed at me right now, but I wish you could like maybe put it aside for a little while... I really, really need to come."

Dale gets up and saunters over to Saul, hands slipping under the gown, pulling what used to be his tightywhiteys down Saul's legs.

"Don't like, go out of your way or anything. I just need a little bit of touching and I'll be done," Saul rushes to say, but it comes out kind of slurred and garbled instead of fast.

"You talk about it like it's taking a piss," Dale says, hanging the underwear over the side railing of the bed.

"Well, yea--" Saul cuts off mid-sentence and leans his head back when Dale blatantly disregards instructions to make minimal effort and starts kissing his inner thighs, and when Dale finally begins sucking in earnest it feels orders of magnitude better than taking a piss, even after waiting for a really long time. This long guttural sound that he can't prevent starts coming out from deep inside his chest when he's almost done, and Dale has to reach up and clap a hand over his mouth because they're in semi-public, and Saul tries to be quieter, tearing up a little from the huge wave of relief.

"I'm sorry man," he says when his cock flops out of Dale's mouth.

"It's okay, I like your sexsobs. Just don't want to wake half the hospital, you know?" and Dale comes up to kiss him, the unsturdy bed squeaking from the shift, Dale sucking face while his hand is still playing ever so lightly with Saul's limp, oversensitive cock. It's when Dale leans his arm against Saul's chest that he suddenly jerks back.

"You're leaking, dude."

Saul wipes at his mouth, expecting horrible drooling on his chin, but then he realizes Dale is talking about his chest. Dale unbuttons his gown enough that they can look at something seeping out of both nipples.

"Jesus. Jesus. What are we supposed to do now?"

Saul is too stoned to deal with unexpected turns of events so he just watches Dale pace around the room and then stares at his nipples again.

"Okay, I'm not calling the nurse, because you're fucking _gone_. So. So... how about I just wrap you in a swathe of paper towel or something from the bathroom."

"Sounds good to me," Saul says, not all that interested, mustering enough energy to squeeze around one nipple and see pearly liquid bead up at the tip again. "Whoa, it's like I came with three cocks."

"Don't say that, that's kind of revolting," Dale says as he tugs Saul's gown up all the way to his armpits. He pushes Saul's shoulder up from the bed, trying to get part of the paper towel under him, and almost lets him drop when he sees Saul tasting his own stuff. "Saul, you're high, get your hand out of your mouth."

"Listen, it's better than spunk. Doesn't taste that good though. I thought babies would want to eat something that tastes good? What if they don't like it?"

"Dude, you're not going to breastfeed them. You're going to make like... a tablespoon per year with that wimpy rack. Actually I shouldn't dignify it as rack."

Saul wants to contradict Dale but it's hard to string words together when he's beginning to feel lethargic.

Dale just keeps going on. "Maybe it's not even milk. I don't know. What if you're messed up and producing pus or something nasty like that. Don't eat it." Dale wraps the paper towel over Saul's chest emphatically.

"What the hell, man, it's not pus. That's not what pus tastes like..." Saul mumbles, but feels he's losing the fight with his heavy eyelids.

***

Saul fell asleep without using the urinal again, Dale realizes. He tries to rouse him, but it's hopeless-- he looks like he fell into a coma, head thrust back on the pillow, mouth open. It becomes a very loud-snoring coma-- he's so high that within a few minutes his throat is closed up and he sounds like he's sawing logs. Dale tries to wake him up several times, or at least turn him on his side, but to no avail.

A nurse Dale doesn't recognize comes in to check up on Saul and cocks her head to one side. "Does he usually breathe like this?"

"Ummm." Dale scrambles. "I guess. He was really tired tonight."

The nurse writes godknowswhat down and leaves. Dale is just thankful she didn't notice anything funny about the paper towels under the gown-- he was dreading having to explain why they didn't call someone, and was trying to figure out if pleading narcolepsy could be a viable explanation or excuse. He's so tired he falls asleep without trouble even through Saul's loud high sleeping.

The next morning Dale wakes up to find Saul still asleep in the same position, having pissed the bed. At least it's possible to wake him up.

Saul is somewhat sobered up but not completely, rubbing his eyes, repeated apologies tripping over cursing that he's still high, slowly melting into depression over how embarrassing and inadequate he is.

"I never, ever thought I'd say this, but _when is this high going to wear off, already_?" Saul whines. "So fucking lame and disgusting. Dale, go to work. The nurse will deal with it."

Alice does deal with it, but Dale calls in to work sick again and is informed he shouldn't bother coming in. He watches Saul eat his entire breakfast without complaining, even the broccoli omelet and freezer-burned cantaloupe cubes Dale can't stomach eating.

"Man..." Saul leans back and Dale puts away the tray. "When I get out of here and can walk normally and shit, I am so going to become one of those jogging losers. I'll wear like Nike shorts and be all "Mornin', Joan!" around the neighborhood. After this bedrest my legs are going to be, like, vestigial structures."

"Are you feeling okay, at least?" Dale asks rubbing Saul's thigh for lack of anything better to do, sort of embarrassed to tell him that he lost his job through laziness more than anything else.

"Yeah, I'm like at optimal highness level right now. I think this is my peak functioning. Only took like twelve hours to get there, right?" Saul laughs weakly. "I'm so sorry you had to see all that yesterday. I was, like, dying of embarrassment on the inside, actually, because you were totally sober and I was just getting more and more fucked up. Thanks so much for everything-- I actually feel really good today. Like I _want_ to go out and jog or something."

Dale pulls him to his feet, and they "walk around" the room. There's barely any space around the bed, but they don't need all that much. Saul is holding onto Dale's shoulders with a nervous grip, not really trusting his legs, squeezing their bodies together as much as the belly will allow, making baby steps back and forth. It's like a lame slowdance at a high school prom, except one of the students is morbidly pregnant. Dale squeezes Saul to him too, on the waist and on the ass, and they can just barely touch noses if they stretch their necks. Too far for kissing.

"I lost my stupid job," Dale mutters. It is a stupid job, but for some reason it's mortifying to lose it.

"Shit," Saul mutters. "Sorry, I keep making you stay with me. I'd be so happy if you were just always here with me, but that's like really unfair to expect. And it's so boring here."

"You think working the drive-thru is less boring?"

Saul smiles lopsidedly, looking down, and god he looks pretty today. Unshaven, greasy hair, but he does look better than he did days ago.

"So should I get Red to make more stuff for you?" Dale asks as he settles Saul back down onto the bed and uncovers his stomach to massage moisturizer on it for him.

"I don't know, I'm thinking of giving it up for good after last night. That was seriously disgusting."

"Listen, man, I think you should keep taking weed. In all seriousness. I'm beginning to believe you're a freak who actually requires it to function."

"All right. Maybe a little. I can't say no." Saul laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his own neck.

Saul can't say no to a lot of things, Dale thinks. That might be a big part of his appeal. Dale turns him on his side and gives him a backrub.

"So when are your parents coming to visit you?" Saul suddenly breaks the silence. "I don't want to be fucked up when they come."

"I think she booked tickets for next week. Pretty impulsive if you ask me."

"You said they're going to let me shower standing up? I'm going to shower every day until they come. I'm going to be like, _pristine_ by the time they get here."

Dale laughs. "Didn't they schedule your operation for the day after tomorrow or something? Shouldn't you be more worried about that?"

"They said maybe, if I'm still fucked up. But I'm feeling better. So what kind of things are your parents interested in? They're from Canada?"

"Dude, stop freaking out. Look, they're not like royalty or anything. If they don't like you, well, tough shit. I'm definitely closer to you than I am to them by now."

"But I want them to like me. Otherwise they'll make you feel bad, and you'll be all torn, and staying with me will be some crappy compromise..."

"Everything's a crappy compromise. Crappy compromises are underrated, I think. Like moving in with you was a crappy compromise to begin with."

"But you don't regret it?" Saul asks, and there's this hint of tremolo in his voice.

"No, man. No. I actually thought about this for a while. The alternative would have been... what. I'd have been dumped by Angie and living alone and still have a job working the drive-thru because I'd have no reason not to show up. Or possibly I'd have been homeless and started hustling and gotten myself hooked on crystal meth or something."

Saul smiles but doesn't say anything in reply. He presses his palms together and closes his eyes and whispers some mantra, Dale can't quite make it out... "Comeon,healbodyheal" or something like that.

"Before Alice comes to take the blood samples," Saul says, as if that adequately explains anything, but Dale nods anyway.


	16. July 21, 2008

Dale's parents have been in town for almost an entire day before Dale gets up the nerve to bring them to the hospital. Or rather, Dale and his parents were sitting around the motel room, having a stilted conversation about how things were going, without bringing up the dreaded Boyfriend topic, when Saul called Dale to ask whether he would be coming back that night, immediately assuring him that it would be fine if he was going to sleep somewhere else-- he just wants know-- a little bit of desperation seeping through his tone. Dale assures him he's coming back and that he'll bring his parents, and decides to just start blurting everything out once he puts the phone away. Both parents look too discomfited to interrupt.

"I just don't understand," his father says when Dale goes quiet. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What," Dale says, already weary from just anticipating the conversation that's about to take place.

"He's a guy."

"Yes."

"But carrying children."

"Yeah, carrying, growing them. I don't know."

"Don't you think it's a little strange? This whole mess?"

"Yes, yes, Dad, it's pretty strange, no one's arguing with you. It's like fucking magical realism or something, except actually real. If you're that interested why don't you ask the doctors about it..."

"Ronald-- does this really help?"

"I'm just putting it out there. Are you sure he's not swindling you somehow? You know how these people are."

"Which people."

"Drug addicts. Drug dealers. They all hustle at some point, don't they?"

"Okay, how is he swindling me in this case?"

"I don't know! I don't know how they think."

Dale rubs his eyes and sighs. "How about you go and see for yourself and then tell me if you think he's faking it."

"I'm not saying he's _faking_ it."

"Well then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying... well, he's obviously a hermaphrodite. Maybe drugs cause that."

"Weed causes it? What, like a disease? You catch hermaphroditis?"

"How about we just go and visit so that we're all on the same page?" Dale's mother suggests, but Dale and his dad keep arguing the whole way in the car, neither producing a coherent point before they reach the hospital.

Saul must have bothered the nurses because entering the room feels like walking through a wall of Febreeze. Saul has his hair clipped up, he obviously took the time to shave carefully, and the sheets on the bed are new. His dad is unlikely to be impressed, but Dale suddenly feels a faint feelings of pride stir up. No matter what his parents decide to think of it, there's a person-- an attractive, warmhearted person-- who values him enough to dutifully carry his children. 

Saul had been on a rapid improvement streak ever since he reintroduced cannabis into his daily routine. One initial stupid overdose notwithstanding, he had been remarkably abstemious ever since, measuring out a pat of greenish hued butter to spread on hospital toast with each meal as if it were medication. The doctors couldn't wrap their minds around his recovery, and Saul was visibly proud when they postponed the surgery. Dale was only beginning to notice how much of Saul's inner-worth was hinged on his ability to carry the kids to term. Dale's kids. For Dale. Red graffitied 'Oven of the Year' on Saul's belly with washable ink last time he dropped by to visit, and it was true in a way.

Dale is afraid Saul will get overwhelmed and shut down like he usually does when faced with confrontation and unpleasantness, but somehow Saul is very much aware of what it takes to make a good impression, thanks them for the small bouquet of flowers Dale's mom insisted on buying on the way, keeps eye contact and smiles-- even when Dale's dad begins asking questions Dale had expressly instructed him not to bring up, like future career aspirations and why he hadn't opted for abortion. Saul somehow manages to hit all the right notes-- he's aspiring to help people engineer indoor gardens-- no, of course not for marijuana cultivation, those days are behind him-- and he did give abortion serious consideration, but the doctors had been very optimistic, and it did feel like a waste to end something so unusual, and he felt it was prime time to start a new stage in his life, and he loves Dale very much so why not?

There are the inevitable periodic awkward silences that Dale doesn't know how to fill-- even though that responsibility probably falls on him, by default. He's too busy anticipating what his dad will complain about on the way home, because no matter how showered and hairbrushed and clean-shaven Saul made sure to be, he still looks and sounds fucking bohemian. Saul tries to compliment them for raising such a great son, but this is immediately rebuffed with "Really? Is this Dale you're talking about?" from Dale's dad, and Dale can see sweat break out along Saul's hairline, but he keeps smiling and even laughs weakly for politeness' sake. An attempt to talk about something neutral, such as Canadian sports, ends with Saul painting himself into a corner by commenting how curling is the weirdest sport he'd ever seen but it's great to marathon-watch when he's....... bored. Dale's dad rolls his eyes as ostentatiously as he can. Dale wishes he would man up and take and hold Saul's hand so that it's perfectly clear whose side he's on, but he's paralyzed in front of his parents and just stands like useless furniture at the foot of the bed.

Dale's mother is generally quieter, but she salvages the conversation by asking if she can touch the belly, and Saul is so relieved and so eager to oblige and change the focus off himself that he can barely unbutton his gown fast enough. Dale's mother feels around, trying to locate the position of both fetuses, and Saul looks with her, obviously glad that he doesn't have to acknowledge the annoyed, impatient sighs coming from Dale's dad. He shows them the little portfolio of fancy 3-D ultrasounds, rushing to apologize for how weird the girls look, blaming the software, and the pixellation, and the early gestational week when they were taken, and anything else he can think of until Dale's mom assures him that they look wonderful.

Dale's dad grudgingly holds his hand against Saul's distended stomach at his wife's request, and pulls it away as soon as he feels movement. He asks if Saul already has names lined up and Saul rushes to say no, and shoots Dale a look before he can try to remind him of the whole Aretha and Marley business.

"Didn't your grandmother pass away recently?" Dale's dad asks. "Dale mentioned something. You're not going to name one of them after her?"

"Dad, what the hell." Dale mutters, knowing Saul well enough to notice small signs of distress on his face at the memory, but Saul just smiles it away.

"That's like, so nice of you to suggest. I don't think Faye's good name for a girl these days, though. I love my grandmother a lot, but I figure she wouldn't want her great-grandkids teased on the playground because of her."

"I'm not sure their names are your biggest concern there," Dale's dad mutters just loud enough to be heard but not to be held accountable for saying it. 

Saul's breathing is shallow and nervous, but his face maintains a helpless, ingratiating smile. "Seriously, though, you guys should pick out names. In case they actually turn out okay..." he laughs a little sadly and Dale feels acutely mortified about all his dad's suspicions and prejudices against him. His boyfriend. There was something about the term that put Dale off and he never used it in all the months they've been living together, but his parents had been using it left and right-- his father with disdain but his mother with a kind of tenderness, that it doesn't sound as strange anymore.

"I like Emily," Dale's mom offers point-blank, and Saul is obviously relieved to be taken up on the offer.

"Yeah, Emily's great! You should pick the other one out too. I don't have like, a good aesthetic sense for which names go well together."

"You need something different enough. We'll think about it," Dale's mom promises.

Dale decides to herd his parents out, an hour of this agitation on all fronts is quite enough for everyone's nerves. He sends his parents out for the car and helps Saul shuffle over to the bathroom.

"I'm sorry my dad had to be such a dick," Dale says through the door.

"What? It's totally fine, man. Your parents are awesome. They're so... parent-y. I wish I had your mom. I just hope they didn't totally hate me."

"I don't know why he decided to stress you out."

"It's okay, man. He cares about you. I mean, if I were him I'd probably be a bit of a dick to me too."

Dale waits until Saul flushes to open the door. He pulls him up, starts pulling his pants up for him, then offers to wipe his ass if it's getting awkward to do it himself, but Saul shakes his head. "Nah. I've been backed up for like, three days. It's really starting to bother me, like hurting. I'm going to ask the nurse to give me something for it if it doesn't get better by tomorrow."

"Yeah, you look like you're in pain, sort of."

"Shit. Your parents didn't notice did they? I think I have stomach upset from like, being so nervous..."

"Thanks, dude," Dale says quietly when he lays Saul back in bed. "Thanks a lot. Seriously. I really appreciate you trying so hard to make a good impression on my unimpressable folks."

"Hey, that's what friends are for," Saul says, shrugging.

"'Friends'?" Dale snorts, but then leans in and gives him a good bye peck. "You look fucking hot with your hair clipped up like that."

There's a ghost of a smile on Saul's lips before he sighs and undoes his hair. "It's just kind of depressing how little I can talk about that doesn't lead back to weed or being high. I'm like a classic, boring addict."

"It's okay. They're classic, boring parents."

"I always wanted classic boring parents. I have like a platonic fetish for middle-aged, conservative couples. And your mom is killer! I like her almost more than you or something." Saul laughs before Dale grabs the pillow from under his head and throws it down into his face.

"Go ahead and marry her then."

"She's a MILM, hehe. But your dad would kill me, I'm pretty sure."

"I hope so," Dale says, waving goodbye and heading toward the hospital garage to meet his parents.

Saul's mother _was_ extremely different. Dale ended up meeting her at Bubbe's funeral, where he read the eulogy Saul scrawled on spiral notebook paper and generally acted in his stead. Saul groaned when Dale told him how he immediately recognized her because the resemblance was striking. She wasn't even fifty years old, and aiming to look under forty-- still a beautiful woman, though more noticeable for dressing in a low-cut fuchsia dress to attend a funeral than for any physical feature. She and Dale sat down to negotiate a transfer of most of the inheritance to her account at a Starbucks with outdoor seating, where she just assumed Dale was some sort of hardcore inheritance attorney. Her designer sunglasses made her look like some apathetic aging Hollywood diva, and made Dale feel even less inclined to give her more than a fair share to spend on frivolous, tasteless crap like that. Saul just planned to give his mother everything left over after paying for the funeral itself, but Dale couldn't stomach the idea. He finally talked her down to taking only half, even after she gave him a sobstory about how hard it was being a divorced older woman. He thought they were finished and was about to get up and go, when she suddenly grazed her high heel pump against his calf and tilted her sunglasses down her nose to look over him. "How much is my Sunshine paying you for doing this for him?" she asked, her resemblance to Saul downright eerie when she turned and took a drag from her Newport cigarette, cheeks hollowing. Dale hated feeling a certain involuntary frisson in his spine in response to that awful, tacky gesture under the table. He excused himself quickly and left her grousing over how her own son wouldn't meet her face-to-face, and omitted that part of the story when he was recounting it to Saul to spare both of them embarrassment.

***

Dale drives his parents back to their motel, and his father doesn't say anything at first-- getting Dale's hopes up that perhaps Saul did manage to win him over in person. The relief doesn't last.

"I still think you should be very careful with this guy."

"Ronald, you saw it for yourself."

"I don't know what I saw. I'm not saying he's lying, I'm just concerned that you're stuck in some weird scheme."

"Dad, okay. He sold drugs. I bought drugs. Which of us is really better?"

"His stomach looked too big, honestly. There's something not right."

"How much did he gain, honey?" Dale's mother chimes in, on topic but not in the same tone, thankfully.

"Like, seventy pounds." Dale watches his mother's eyebrows arch in the rear view mirror. "It's way too much, I know. They were checking him for gestational diabetes and stuff, but then they said he just had a buildup of a _lot_ of placenta and other crap tissue in there. Anyway, they said the babies seemed fine. And even if they're not fine, it's not like it's Saul's fault, you know...?"

"It's just that he's one of these loafers, I can tell. I'm just not happy with the whole situation."

"Loafer? What the hell does that even mean nowadays?"

"It means the same thing it's always meant. He wants you because he sees a fellow loafer in you, and he's bringing out the worst in you. Well, don't look so glum. I just think you should consider all your options. What do you think, Caths?"

Dale sees his mother shrug out of the corner of his eye. "I thought he was lovely, personally." She says it quietly, without any agitation, and Dale feels gratified that this makes it sound like fact rather than opinion.

"'Lovely'? I can think of some other words to describe him."

"He really loves Dale, and he seems like such a good-natured kid. Gay, drug dealer, hermaphrodite... it all _sounded_ much worse. I like him now that I've met him."

"You just went all gooey because of the children."

"Well, why not? This poor guy is going through all this trouble to carry them to term... why shouldn't that count for something? They're our grandchildren."

"I don't know if I want my grandchildren to be coming from _that_." Dale's father pauses and there's silence in the car. Dale huffs through his nose, knuckles turning white around the steering wheel, counting to ten or twenty or whatever it takes to avoid responding.

Dale's father sounds like he's regretting that last bit, but can't back down at this point. "I'm just saying... it's emotional blackmail."

They've reached the motel, and Dale finally turns around. "Dad. I can walk out anytime."

"Right."

"He's the one who had to give up his means of living or whatever..."

"His illegal means."

"Okay, fine, yes. Illegal. He still had to give it all up."

"Well he better, if he ever wants to shape up his life."

"Okay. So we agree. He's shaping up his life. End of story." Dale turns back to face the front.

"You're not listening now, Dale, but you might regret it."

"Dad, you know who else doesn't listen? Didn't I tell you not to bring up the whole job or lackthereof topic? No, you had to go and stress him out with all your boxed in suburban _bullshit_ about what he should be doing in ten years, when he might be friggin' dead in a week."

"And I'm the negative one, Cathy? Listen to him talk."

"Ronald, you just press on and on. That poor kid was scrambling and you just kept pressing the issue."

"Fine. I'm being too mean. Let's all euphemize and dance around the truth, and everything will turn out fine and dandy. Our son will be married to a gender confused welfare queen and they'll sell drugs and have irresponsible unprotected sex happily ever after. That's what I always wanted for Dale."

"Ronald... really."

Dale coughs. "Tell you what, we can finish this awesome conversation tomorrow. I have to get back to the hospital."

"He's just very worried. And a little 'set in his ways'," Dale's mom murmurs quietly to Dale as she hugs him before he gets back in the car. "You do what feels right to you, honey. I can see why you like him. Your father will come around too-- I bet you anything."

"I'm just so pissed, I can't even look at Dad," Dale mutters. "This whole thing reminds me exactly why I moved far away from you guys." Dale's mom just looks at him with the slightest shadow of hurt on her face until he caves with "I'm sorry, I didn't really mean that."

"Like father like son, sometimes," she says, smiling sadly.

By the time Dale makes a trip to the store to buy some more pickles, Maxipads, and nursing pads-- Saul's a friggin' exuding machine lately-- it's getting late. When he returns, Saul's already asleep, the light left on, the snore suggesting he's somewhat high. Red's brand stick of cannabutter, usually stashed carefully under the bed, is in Saul's relaxed grip, unwrapped almost like some sort of banana. Dale feels a little nauseous when he sees that Saul must have sucked on it like a popsicle. Desperate making up for a day's worth of sobriety and stress, perhaps? Dale slips the softened greasy thing out of Saul's hand and wraps it back up, resolving not to nag him about it in the morning.

Sometime during the night Dale wakes up because Saul keep shifting, breathing heavily. It goes on and on, and Dale can't get back to sleep anyway.

"Dude, what are you doing. Did you piss the bed again?"

"Huh?" Saul asks. "No, I'm just so uncomfortable. Sorry-- this bed is fucking squeaky."

Dale sees him fish around for the butter and resume sucking on it.

"Dude! What the hell! I was just about to be proud of you too."

"I don't feel good. I feel kind of nauseous."

"Maybe you shouldn't be eating pure butter on an empty stomach then?"

Saul shrugs. "Helps me sleep."

Dale is too tired to reply and he turns to the wall, trying not to listen to the occasional sucking noise Saul makes, and drifts off again to suffer some tedious uncomfortable dream that he can't quite recall the next morning.

***

Saul wakes Dale up at an ungodly early hour with pleas to go to the bathroom, again to no avail, complaining how he can't really bear down when he's so pregnant. Dale brings Saul back to the bed and offers to just go buy some Ex-Lax already, but Saul calls the nurse who insists he get an enema because laxatives get absorbed through the bloodstream and can affect fetuses.

"Should I... go out into the hallway?" Dale asks-- a little too hopefully, perhaps-- when the nurse leaves to get the equipment, but Saul is pretty adamant about him staying, grabbing Dale's hand for extra emphasis.

Dale really feels like he could have lived without the sight of a nurse emptying a pint or so into Saul's bowels, Saul begging her to slow down the flow the whole time, the nurse in turn asking Dale to hold Saul still.

"I can't make it, I can't make it..." Saul stammers out on repeat as the nurse tells him to hold it, and then Dale heaves him up to his feet and scuttles him over to the toilet, just barely plopping him down before there's the unpleasant sound of water striking water in the bowl.

"Close the fucking door already!" Saul's in tears, and Dale is happy to oblige, standing outside grimacing at the sound of more and more water.

"Are you sure he's okay?" Dale asks the nurse as she's packing up the enema stand.

"It hurts when it cramps, but that should have loosened him right up. He'll feel better in no time."

Dale resents her matter-of-fact tone, but says nothing. He waits a good five minutes before knocking and reopening the door. Saul is awkwardly sprawled across the seat, leaning back against the tank, breathing hard, belly heaving, sweating so much his hair is stuck to his face.

"So... did it work?" Dale asks cautiously.

"How should I kn--ngh" Saul says, voice cutting off into a pained grimace. "I don't know. Fucking cramps... It really hurts."

Dale stares at Saul fidgeting around, his thighs actually vibrating with the pain. Then it passes, and Saul's body melts back out of the tension, sighing in relief for a few moments before the pain restarts.

"Do... you want to go back to bed?"

"No, no, don't move me. When you dropped me on this toilet seat something happened. I think something broke."

"You're not that heavy."

"No, I mean. Inside. Something's really wrong with my hips or something. I don't know..."

"Dude, let me just take you back to bed..."

"No..." Saul exhales in pain, shaking his head furiously. "I want to just stay right here."

Dale rubs his elbow, leaning on the doorframe, a sudden dreadful thought dawning on him. "Hey, um..." he swallows hard. "That's not labor, right? That's not what labor's like, right?"

Saul tenses up, but then laughs weakly before the pain flares up again. "I don't think so. I mean, isn't it supposed to really hurt?"

"Yeah, I know. But you kind of seem to be really hurting this morning..." Dale mutters, bumping a fist against the doorframe from nervousness. "Let me get the doctor."

"No, man, it's gonna be fine..." Saul shouts after him, but Dale's made up his mind and is already out the door of the room.

The following hour is a horrible blur. Dale calls in the doctor and they get Saul on a gurney. Labor is officially declared, but they can't tell how far along he is because there's no cervix to get dilated or any other normal benchmarks. As soon as they start trying to check there's panic-- there's a head already lined up _right there_. The water must have broken from the enema, Dale says. _What enema?_ they ask, and then it's total finger-pointing pandemonium. Nobody seems to know what the hell they're doing. They start arguing over who authorized whom to give an enema, who didn't brief the nurses working on Saul that he had a fragile pregnancy on the lumenal side of the intestine, who knows the contact info of all the people who are supposed to carry out his surgery. Dale wants to rip his hair out when the doctor asks Saul how long he's felt contractions and Saul mumbles that it "sort of started before last night but it was really subtle at first."

" _Last night_?" Dale buries his face in his hands. "You fucking self-medicated yourself through fucking _twelve hours of labor_?" He's too distraught to even be discreet, and it's not as if the doctors are paying attention.

"I called you when I felt something. When I asked if you were coming back. I thought I just got really nervous before your parents visited!" Saul protests, wiping away tears. "I didn't want to be all whiny while they were here..."

"Shit. Holy fucking shit." Dale just keeps cursing over and over, cursing at Saul's skewed sense of priority, at his own obliviousness, at his parents having to come exactly on the day, at weed for being such a good analgesic. Dale asks the doctors if they can just go ahead with the Caesarian already, but they start giving him some circuitous explanation about how it's a very non-standard procedure, and they need the gastroenterologist to be there along with the most experienced ob/gyn to perform at least half of the procedure, and they're going to be in soon, but the OR still has to be prepped, and meanwhile Saul's legs are folding and trembling like crazy and he's crushing Dale's hand in his own, and Dale can't take it anymore, starts crying even as they slam Saul's gurney through the heavy OR doors, even though they apparently can't do the surgery at this point. The contractions are really close together by now. They slap a nitrous respirator on Saul-- they rush to explain it's the safest pain relief and gives hyperoxygenation which should help the fetuses stay viable, and Dale nods along, even though he can't really remember everything they're explaining quickly because he mostly watches Saul's eyes dart around the room, mouth gasping inside the respirator. Dale has to guide Saul's hand to scrawl something resembling his signature on several consent and release forms, and kisses his forehead over and over. 

They try to position the needle for spinal anesthesia, but Saul's torso isn't holding still, and he won't let go of Dale's hand, so Dale ends up being constantly in the way of everything that they're trying to do. They try to hold him down on his side, but he's crying so hard that they keep jabbing the wrong place, and Dale makes the mistake of looking over and seeing that birth is visibly under way and it's very possibly the worst thing he's ever seen. The midwife is holding the pushes back, asking for permission to make episiotomy cuts, otherwise there's going to be spontaneous tearing soon, just as they finally jab the needle and get it in between the vertebrae. Within seconds after they pull the long needle back out, Saul's body untenses, and they slip the respirator off and turn him on his back again and Dale tries not to think about what the doctor is doing with the weird-shaped operating scissors back there.

"D-don't leave..." Saul mumbles, eyes squinting in the light.

"I'm right here," Dale says, watching them pull a bloody wet little thing out because he can't look away, but Saul seems so out of it he doesn't even notice. They spank it to get it crying and wrap it up to rush it away and only then does Saul look over.

"I don't really feel anything..." he mutters, weak and dazed, and they stick a curtain in front of his face, but Dale can still watch them pull and pull and pull out all sorts of bloody entrail-looking stuff, like some demented magic trick.

"This is the mother of all placenta," one of the younger interns says as he collects it all in a tub.

The second baby follows shortly, and as soon as they've severed the cord they get Saul under general anesthesia, intubate his throat and try to clear everything out of his gut. The specialized surgeons finally get there and start discussing how best to stem the blood flow, and Dale just stands in the background, feeling absolutely dead, as if Saul's grip had somehow been holding him up too, and now he just can't think about this anymore, even though he still has to give informed consent to their suggested procedures, and the few inadvertent glimpses he catches of Saul's ruined ass makes him feel like he's going to throw up. Eventually he has to leave and does. It's only ten A.M. but Dale feels like he's aged that morning.

***

"... Dale?" Saul's voice sounds weird to him, scratched up and probably too quiet. He opens his eyes and tries to move, surprised that he's on his stomach. On his stomach is such a weird position after all these months. "Dale...." he croaks out again, his mouth parched, almost talking into the mattress, trying to lift himself up, but suddenly realizing there's at least three straps across his body holding him down.

"Hey. Hey!" Dale comes into Saul's line of sight. "Don't struggle, man, just... don't move." Saul stops tensing and sighs in relief when he feels Dale's hand stroking his back. Dale's tearing up, which always makes Saul feel embarrassed, for some reason.

"So... I'm guessing I'm pretty fucked up down there?" Saul's surprised at how casually the question comes out. He must be on some weird medication.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, I dunno.... it looked pretty brutal."

"So..." Saul swallows. "How long are they giving me?"

"How long to what?" Dale asks, wiping back more tears.

"Well, like... I mean, how long do I have?"

"Oh--" Dale looks disturbed. "No... I mean, no. They didn't say anything about that."

"Really?" Saul actually manages a weak smile, even though it's hard to, with half of his face pressed down against the mattress. "Because it felt like I was really honest-to-fucking-god dying until they spinaltapped me. So that's better than I expected, I guess."

Dale's eyes dart to the side uncomfortably, and it looks like he's not as psyched. 

Saul sighs. "So, like, everything tore, right?"

Dale stands without saying anything, obviously mulling over how to phrase it, but then just comes out with it. "I'm not gonna lie, man, it was the most terrible thing I ever saw. There was blood everywhere, all over the floor, like fucking _Carrie_ level of sick. I just don't even know... They had to give you a blood transfusion and everything."

"Oh." Saul chews his lip. "So I guess I'm going to be the worst anal sex partner ever after this..."

"Don't even joke about this, man." Dale does a teary laugh and presses his forehead against Saul's. Saul was actually being serious, but on second thought maybe that shouldn't be on his mind right now.

"So..." Saul proceeds cautiously, still pretty frightened because Dale is so upset, but also needing to know the worst of it. "Did my cock get completely obliterated too?"

"What?" Dale startles back, and even stops crying. "No. What the hell. I mean, no, I didn't check specifically, but they didn't cut you that far up front. They made two cuts, front and back, and I think they haven't even sewn anything back together, because they were getting stuff out of you for like an hour. I swear, I thought your whole digestive tract came out, but apparently it was just a lot of placenta and faux-uterus and a lot of other just... random crap? I mean, even the doctors were freaking out."

Saul suddenly jerks up, forgetting for a moment he's belted in. "Wait, where're the babies?" He settles back down and laughs weakly. "God, I'm the shittiest parent ever, this doesn't bode well, I totally forgot about them."

"They're fine, actually."

"So you saw them?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they moved them to intensive care automatically, but they didn't need it. They're friggin' robust, and like not even that premature."

"So are they cute?"

"I mean..." Dale hesitates. "Yeah, yeah, they are. They're great, they seem great."

Saul smiles so wide it hurts a little.

"Anyway..." Dale strokes the back of his thigh, and Saul is finally convinced that his ass is raised up on a triangle block-like thing, and it's not just a weird false sensation. "They're saying they're going to do everything they can for you to recover. I'm just amazed at how okay you sound now."

"Actually my throat really hurts for some reason whenever I talk. And I have a crazy strong headache..."

"Well, they intubated your throat while you were out and you're on a lot of morphine right now, dude."

" _Morphine_?" Saul shuts his eyes. "No wonder I feel like shit. Opiates are such bad highs, man. Such bad highs."

"You're going to like the high a lot once it starts wearing off and you start feeling all that stuff that went down during birth. This isn't your recreational opiate stuff."

Saul shakes his head as much as he can in the position that he's in. "I just need weed, man. Just bring me some and I'll cope. Might have to double dose or something, but it'll pull me through."

Dale sighs and starts giving him bullshit about how he's under much higher surveillance as of today, and how he's not supposed to eat anything either, how he's going to be put on IV while they try to heal his ass, but Saul feels groggy and nauseous now that he knows he's on morphine. Maybe it's psychosomatic, but he can't help it. He's always had a lot of disdain for all the other types of highs.

Alice comes to visit, saying how sorry she was that she hadn't been there for him, fretting over how he could have gotten an enema done, in his condition, and Saul tries to assure her that it was okay, that maybe speeding things up had been for the best, and she nods but there's a sadness in her eyes that makes Saul worry that he won't actually ever get well again.

Saul asks to take a piss, not realizing this will be a real ordeal where not one but several doctors show up. They unstrap him and carefully turn him over, and Saul is surprised by sharp pains in his hips.

"Your pelvic joints have cartilage between them," the doctor explains as Saul winces while getting turned all the way over. "Cartilage is the soft substance in your nose and ears--"

"I know what cartilage is," Saul grumbles with a weird annoyed edge, probably from the pain that's been creeping back as the painkiller wears off.

"Right-- so during pregnancy, hormones act to make the cartilage in your pelvis more supple, to basically allow the bones to move apart. Your pelvis had a very narrow inner diameter compared to their skulls, if you can imagine..." the doctor tries to demonstrate the size of the pelvis with his hands. "So your entire pelvic girdle is very destabilized. To be honest, we didn't think they'd go through..."

Saul sighs, staring at the weird compression shorts they stuck on him to keep his bones and tissue in one compact package, apparently.

"These shorts are so gay," he mutters, mostly to Dale, and Dale actually cracks up, but then they peel them down a bit and Saul can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of homecoming when he sees his cock again, no more distended belly obscuring his view. It's a bit embarrassing to have six people stand around watching him take a piss, but he's been holding it for too long to get shy about it. They snap the shorts back up and turn him over again, pushing the block back under him, and administering a morphine shot right in the ass for good measure.

"We want your hips to stay elevated above your heart for now," another of the doctors explains. "We're still debating how best to go about surgically treating all the injuries you sustained..."

"Sounds good," Saul says, still annoyed that he gets morphined without consent, but definitely appreciating the pain relief by now.

Dale's parents come to visit him too, and Dale's father doesn't make a single judgmental comment, and mostly just hovers in the corner, ashen-faced. By this point, Saul is sure that it's plainly visible to everyone else that he isn't going to make it, and that's why they're all being so nice and circumspect, and it makes him sad but he decides to make the best of it and not spend the remainder of his life crying and bitching about morphine and compression shorts. 

"Can I see the babies?" he asks, with a renewed sense of urgency.

Alice wheels them in from the newborn ward and Saul has an incredible sinking feeling when he sees them. They're freakishly coneheaded and red faced, with burst blood vessels all over their cheeks and swollen eyelids.

"Wha-at..." he groans, feeling a bit self-conscious because Dale's parents are in the room. All of his sacrificing, his probably impending death is for _this_?

"Dude, it's fine. They're like eight hours old, what do you want."

"No, but they're really messed up!" Saul doesn't know how he can feel so groggy and indignant at the same time. "I thought they'd be like the Gerber baby. Or at least the Heinz baby, you know? I mean like this, I don't even wanna keep them..."

Saul actually sees Dale's father perk up at those words, but he can't exactly tell with what emotion.

"Whatever, Saul. You have no idea what you're talking about." Dale lifts one of them up and cradles her in his arms.

"Dale came out really coneheaded," Dale's mother offers, laughing. "And it stayed like that for weeks. We kept putting little hats on him to cover it up. Remember, Ronald?"

"Yeah," Dale's father says blankly, still staring at Saul.

"Really?" Saul says, looking quizzically at Dale's big round head now.

"Listen, man, I wanna see how _you_ 'd look squeezing through your--" Dale trails off when he notices that Saul's turning red, eyes darting to Dale's parents.


End file.
